


Pyrophoros

by minhyukwithagun (deadlylampshades)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witch Hunter, Background Relationships, Friends to Strangers to Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Redemption, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2020-01-23 12:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 108,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18550120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlylampshades/pseuds/minhyukwithagun
Summary: Joshua had hoped to never meet another witch hunter ever again. And then he runs into Jeonghan.





	1. Spark

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been my absolute joy for the past few months and i'm so excited to share it! it's strongly influenced by the Witcher 3, and while no knowledge of the series is needed to understand this fic and a lot of liberties with the lore are taken, for those of you familiar with it, this entire fic takes place in Velen. 
> 
> the following applies to the entire fic!
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** mild violence, hunting of wild animals, referenced minor character death, discussions of burning at the stake etc. 
> 
> this fic would not at all be possible without my creative consultant, emotional support virgo and mortal enemy [Almay](https://twitter.com/lovefoolthatsme). she's been a constant encouragement and i would not have been able to write this without her. i'm so grateful for all our conversations about this fic that we've had, and all the emotional suffering she had to go through. also, please direct all hate mail directly to her, thanks.

Witch hunters were rumoured to arrive in a burst of holy light but in the spirit of irony, the pair that emerges from the Mire does so in absolute darkness.

Their individual identities matter minimally. Distinct uniform announces their profession before any words or banners ever could. The symbol of the organization adorned on their chest burns a matching hole on Joshua’s. He remains perpetually frozen, unable to move a step further, unable to articulate a single word. Seungkwan’s words as he shook him awake minutes earlier, eyes blown, resound in his mind:

“ _Joshua, I think I saw witch hunters._ ”   

His knowledge is rusted from years of disuse, and it’s difficult attempting to sift through every piece of useless information that clutters his mind, sweeping away the insignificant. Joshua narrows in his focus on the finer details, the kind that most would overlook. They aren’t Inquisitors, that much is certain. They lack the necessary decorations — while the pair’s clothes are dark and buckled and their cloaks billow behind them, there are none of the medals and necklaces of honour that Inquisitors don so proudly.

But that’s good. If it was an Inquisitor, Joshua thinks he’d probably lie down in front of their feet and wait for his execution without further argument. No point drawing out the inevitable. But these are just witch hunters - but calling them ‘ _just_ ’ anything is a vast underestimation. 

They haven’t noticed his presence, occupied in a discussion between themselves, the shorter of the two pointing towards the gnarled oak tree that hangs over them like a dark cloud. Joshua dares to take a step closer, attempting to discern their words. He blends among the reeds. He’s lived in the swamp for long enough to know how to sneak, to know how to tread water without betraying his position with a splash. The solstice has barely winked by, the soil imprinted with a hundred footsteps. Joshua has been here for eight solstices, and that’s far more than he ever expected to experience and yet, he cannot deny the fear that eats up the inside of his skull. It’s too soon. He always knew the Order would come back for him but it’s _too soon_ , he didn't have time to prepare — and they’re already here, two spires in the distance.

“It’s quiet here,” the witch hunter says. “Aren’t these swampfolk supposed to be early risers?”

The accent is what gets Joshua first because that’s _his_ accent. It’s not his voice, no, this voice is softer, gentler, the kind of voice that’s wrapped in velvet and can warm a room in cold days. But the lilt of his words, the way he over-articulates his vowels, the restrained speaking style — that’s Joshua’s accent, that’s the accent of his home.

“I would assume so. Clearly we’re mistaken,” his partner replies. His eyes are sharp, tilted upwards, and scan the surroundings carefully — but his inexperience in the environment betrays himself, and he does not see Joshua. “It looks like there’s been some sort of celebration recently. A festival, perhaps.”

“It was the solstice, was it not?”

“How would I know?” he scoffs. He lifts up his foot and shakes off the mud that cakes his boot. “Well, this is your _passion project_ , what do you want to do? Should I get the horses, circle back to the nearest town, rest there for the day, and come back tonight? That inn we passed looked nice.” He already turns to leave.

The first witch hunter speaks again, and it’s that accent again, and it uncoils a pit inside Joshua’s stomach. It’s not often he hears someone from home. “Soonyoung, no. We’re already here. Besides, it’s almost sunrise. They’ll awaken soon enough.”

Soonyoung snorts. “And while we wait?”

“We do what we always do when we have to wait,” he says decisively. “They know we’re here. Or they will soon enough. When they’re ready, they’ll talk to us.”

 And then he casts his eyes across the swamp in front of him. It’s nothing like the kind of places that witch hunters usually travel to. Instead of a bustling cities with neatly shaped buildings, there’s matchbox houses with thatched roofs and instead of the paved roads, beaten by carriages, there’s the water-logged soil. It had been a shock the first time Joshua had arrived in the Mire, and it appears the hunter goes through something similar, his gaze taking in each facet of his surroundings. It seems like for a moment, his stormy eyes lock with Joshua’s. It sustains. And then it passes.

****  


“You need to hide,” is the first thing Joshua says when he rushes back into the house. His foot catches on an amphora pot and it almost smashes to the ground, if not for Joshua hugging it to his chest. Seungkwan had been looking for wolfsbane before dawn when he noticed the witch hunters, and had ran back home, and shook Joshua awake. Certainly he’s up in the attic, and while that was often considered his workshop, it’s more likely his bunker now. Joshua is halfway up the steps, already mentally tracing the path to the chest under his bed, when something grabs him by the elbow.

“Joshua, hold on,” Seungcheol says.

Joshua jumps back, panting. “Where did you come from?” Now was not the time for conversation, every second counts.

“I was right there in the kitchen, you didn’t see me. I came as soon as Wonwoo told me. Look, just calm down a second. Seungkwan’s fine. He’s in the…” Seungcheol trails off and gazes upwards at the ceiling. That’s the thing about Seungcheol that Joshua admires the most. He always knows when to keep quiet, when actions speak more than words.

“Okay.” Some of the tension that crawls around his neck diminishes. “That’s good,” Joshua says. “Did you just wake up?”

“Yes.” Seungcheol’s eyes are still red-rimmed from sleep. “Wonwoo told me he saw their horses at the edge of town and alerted me, but by the time I stumbled out they were already there.” He steps back down the staircase. “They haven’t come closer yet. I don’t know why.”

“Protocol,” Joshua mutters under his breath. “It’s a sign of respect. They allow several hours for the village themselves to welcome the witch hunters, give them gifts if that’s how they’re so inclined.”

“Gifts?” Seungcheol repeats. “What are we supposed to give them?”

Joshua’s face pulls at the memory of a lifetime ago, of a woman bent at her knees, brandishing a basket, not even daring to look him in the eye. “Wine. Silver. Gold. Weapons. If you’re feeling particularly generous, your children.”

Seungcheol, in the process of locking the front door, stops just to look at Joshua, concern on his face. “Why?”

Joshua hurries up the rest of the stairs and leans over the railing. “Not to kill them, obviously,” he clarifies. “But some people send their children to the Order like that. It’s not like they have a formal admissions intake.”

This was wasting time. Seungcheol mutters something in response but Joshua can’t hear him. He swings the door open to his room and kneels on the floor next to his bed. His knees are already brushed with mud, but he ignores it and drags the chest into the light. It skids out with a most unpleasant sound, sawdust splintering like a fan. The lock is an invention of Wonwoo, and it’s one of a kind. It’s a gorgeous fusion of metal and wood all entwined in the formation of a maze, with a silver ball in the center. It only unlocks once the ball has passed through the particular pattern, and while it’s a marvel of security, it’s proving highly frustrating as Joshua’s hands have started to shake. He struggles to tilt it to the right direction.

It’s perhaps unnecessarily complicated for a chest, but the contents of this one is far too valuable to leave lying around. 

Seungcheol’s footsteps form the background noise to Joshua’s struggle. “Can I help you out?”

“No, no, I’m the only one who knows the combination. And I remember it, it’s just my damn hands won’t stop _shaking_.” Joshua drops his hands off the lock, and curls them into fists. “Come on, come on.” It’s a mantra he chants as he rattles the chest.

“What’s in there?” Seungcheol asks, coming closer, leaning down next to Joshua, a protective hand on his back. It radiates warmth. “Is it something that will help?”

“It’s my…  old things. My gear. I know they’re here for me. I’m hoping if I can just give them whatever I have, they’ll leave me alone — or at the very least, if they take me, they won’t harm anyone else,” Joshua mutters. If he has to surrender himself to the Order, better now, when he still has his dignity intact, than for them to drag him screaming.

“Joshua…” Seungcheol’s voice is thick with sympathy. Now Joshua’s almost thankful that it refuses to open. He’s not sure he wants Seungcheol to see what’s in there. “You have no proof of that.”

“Why else would they be here?” Joshua says, and then pauses, realizing the stupidity of his own words. “Alright. Perhaps it is because of _him_ , but still, it’s…” Swallowing is difficult. “I won’t lie. I’ve expected something like this eventually. The Order’s not something you can just quit.”

Seungcheol’s hand on his back is an anchor. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. We haven’t even spoken to them. What use is there to already go in chains?”

“But—”

“But what?” Seungcheol says, and his tone is gentle but his words are weighted. “We don’t know anything at this point, and frankly, I can’t see them taking favourably to finding out what’s in there. There’s no point throwing yourself on their swords.”

Seungcheol is so rational that there’s nothing left to argue.  Joshua sighs, and shoves the chest back under the bed where it belongs, but can’t summon the courage to get off the floor.

“I never thought they’d come here. This is a swamp in the middle of nowhere, what do they have to gain? I’m not even sure this place is on the official maps,” Joshua murmurs. He thought he was safe here. It’s silly but it’s hard not to feel betrayed by the trees and the reeds, like maybe they sent a message all the way to the Citadel, bolded in dark ink, proclaiming his whereabouts.

“There’s no point just debating this among ourselves,” Seungcheol says, rising to his feet. He holds out a hand that Joshua accepts. “We need to speak to them. For all we know, they could just be lost travellers on their way to the Western Ramparts.”

‘Lost travellers’ don’t get off their horses and wait outside the town like vultures circling a dying animal. And that’s what they are, with wings of blackened leather and talons of silver swords. The extent of their mission, Joshua cannot determine, but he knows enough about witch hunters to know they are here for a reason, and will not leave until they are satisfied. Witch hunters are as patient as they are bloodthirsty.

“I suppose I should greet them,” Seungcheol says, and worry pronounces itself in the folds of his brow. “What did you say, I just need to introduce them to the town? Is there an honorific I need to use? Do I bow?”

Something uncomfortable uncurls in Joshua’s stomach. “No, don’t bow, only bow to an Inquisitor but—”

“But?”

“Let me talk to them,” Joshua says. His heart beats like wild rabbits in the woods. “I won’t go with my gear, I won’t tell them anything, but let me talk to the witch hunters. I know how to speak to them, I know how to find out what they want.”

“Joshua.” Seungcheol’s voice is quiet. “Don’t do this just because you feel obligated to. That’s not the case at all. We wouldn’t expect you to do this, no one would.”

“I want to. To anyone else, the hunters could lie, but I can see through that, I know the words they use, I know their code,” Joshua says. “Will you let me?”

Seungcheol pauses to consider, and Joshua can almost see the wheels of his mind turning. He’s clearly not in favour of this idea, viewing this village as his own responsibility, but he can’t deny Joshua’s knowledge. After a moment, he nods his head. “Very well. If you’re sure. If anything goes wrong, please alert us, and we’ll do something.”

“Of course,” Joshua answers, privately thinking he would most definitely not do that. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” Seungcheol says, “You never do.” He pauses in the doorway. “Gifts, you said.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly want to give to them.” A swift horse to assist them on their way out, most likely.

“ _Something_. We don’t need to raise any more suspicion. Best to follow the rules and keep our heads down. For the sake of Seungkwan, if not for us,” Seungcheol says. “I’ll speak to Wonwoo. Perhaps he has an idea. I’ll see them later, and I don’t want to show up empty-handed.”

Joshua begins to protest, but a decisive voice from the attic silences them.

“Bring one of Wonwoo’s iron gauntlets. I’ll make it gold.”

It’s soothing to hear Seungkwan’s voice. He’s right, the gift of a functionally useless but aesthetically pleasing gauntlet would win favour among the witch hunters. The Order favours silver — but individuals favour gold.

****

Joshua dons the widest cloak he could find, an all-encompassing olive green, and he reasons it’s because of the cold. It’s been a rainy day in a wet month and even now, the sky still drizzles — but if he was to be entirely honest, he wishes it was armour, something stronger than just cotton.

It’s strange to Joshua that the rest of the Mire continues about their daily life like the arrival of the hunters has nothing to do with them, and, well, it doesn’t. It’s just another grim morning to most of the people here, and the few that are outside seem oblivious to the change in the winds, to the unsettling chill in the air. Objectively, Joshua can understand. It’s just two of them, not an entire Inquisition, and they’re hardly even kicking up a fuss, just keeping to themselves at the edges of the swamp. Most of the residents in the Mire could only barely remember what the crest of the Order of Witch Hunters looks like, let alone be able to identify them solely by uniform.

Joshua envies the ignorance.

Courage is not something learned, it’s something earned, and Joshua sets this in his mind before he walks decisively towards the clearing in the trees. The hunters have their horses tied up, and from the amount of baggage around them, it seems that this was a long trip. The journey must have been perilous across the entire continents they’ve transversed, the roads littered with both bandits and beasts. One of the hunters strokes the mane of a black mare, whispering something indistinct. The other is huddled around a fire that’s rapidly dying, yet still attempts to kindle the embers, muttering profanity under his breath. Sounds a lot like “ _This fucking swamp_ ”, but Joshua can’t be too sure on the specifics.

“Excuse me,” Joshua says and asks a question he knows the answer to, “Are you witch hunters?’

There’s what sounds like a restrained sigh, and the hunter that was attempting to fan the flames, abandons his goal and rises to his feet, regarding Joshua with distaste. “We are. And you are?”

“Here to welcome you to the Black Mire,” Joshua replies.

“You’re here to welcome us? Do you hold some sort of position in this…” the hunter is unable to disguise his disgust, “ _Black Mire_? Are you the leader of this community?”

“Not at all,” Joshua says quickly. “But I’m here on behalf of him.”

“Oh, so this swamp understands the concept of delegation but not of leaving elite military professionals out in the rain?” The hunter’s tone is acidic. Sparing Joshua from the pain of attempting to reply, the other hunter laughs.

“Soonyoung, do calm down. No need to get so fussy so early in the morning,” the hunter says, and he strokes his horse’s mane one final time before turning around. It’s certainly hard to distinguish their faces when their hoods are drawn up but an unmistakable look of confusion crosses the hunter’s face. Joshua can determine that this is the one who is in charge, judging from the subtle differences in posture. When he walks forward, Soonyoung takes a step back, waiting for an order that doesn’t seem to come.

“Is there anything I can help with?” Joshua asks after an uncomfortable silence. “Are you perhaps lost? Do you need something from this part of the swamp?”

Soonyoung gazes to the other hunter to speak, and when he doesn’t, his eyebrows furrow in displeasure. “If this is the Black Mire, it’s where we’re supposed to be. We have a job to do.” A pause. “Which my partner will now announce.”

When the other hunter speaks, it’s in a rehearsed tone. “On behalf of the Order of Witch Hunters, I am here to investigate the claims of a rogue witch hidden in the Black Mire. I am under the leadership of the Inquisitor of the Western Ramparts and have been personally assigned to this location. As per the decrees of this land, anyone who withholds any information pertinent to this investigation will be prosecuted. We expect cooperation.”

Joshua knows exactly who the witch is that they’re talking about, and knows exactly where he is at this very moment, and what his favourite spicing is in venison soup, and it confirms his worst suspicions — but he’s finding it incredibly difficult to concentrate on that, not when the voice that speaks those words sparks a familiarity that runs as deep as his own blood.

He can’t even identify it at first, not really. It’s soft, dignified. It’s just a haze in his mind, unclear and indistinct like the mist that surrounds them. He knows it, though, Joshua _remembers_ it.

A dangerous part of Joshua just wants to rip the hood off of his head and see who it is. 

“A witch?” Joshua manages to stammer out.

Soonyoung doesn’t even bother waiting for his partner to reply. “Yes. Witch, mage, sorcerer. All these terms for the same type of abomination. If you have any information, it would be very useful and be in your best interest to convey it to us. We are professionals, and what you don’t tell us, we will find out.”

“I’m afraid this is the first I’ve ever heard of this,” Joshua says. He keeps his expression blank. His heart thrums.

“Are you from here?” It’s the other hunter who blurts this out, sudden, like he couldn’t stop himself. It’s that accent. It’s _his_ accent.

“I… I live here,” Joshua answers.

“But were you…” the hunter pauses. And then inhales. And when he speaks, it’s not the language he was using. “ _Have you been to the North_?”

Joshua’s native tongue has all but died. No one this side of the world speaks it, and understandably so, what would be the point when the nearest town that does is a month or two away? It's a complicated language, far too many vowels and grammatical rules, and fluency is difficult to achieve, even when he grew up around it. The Citadel emphasized the importance of unity, of one language. No one would speak his native tongue there either.

Well, there was one. There was one who knew so much about Joshua that he’d need two different languages to explain it all.

“Jeonghan,” Joshua exhales.

But it can’t be, Jeonghan can’t be here, of all hunters alive and dead, it can’t be Jeonghan, it’s almost impossible, but that voice, that tone, that _language_.

“I thought it was you but I did not dare hope,” is the reply that comes as he removes the hood that obscures his face. “ _Joshua_.”

That face.

There are several unassailable truths in this world. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and after sunset, two moons rise in a midnight blue sky. The dust of the deserts can be felt even in the wilds of the islands. Magic is real. Magic is powerful and magic can kill and cure both.

The doctrine of the Order of Witch Hunters is not one of these truths. Perhaps Joshua thought it was once, years ago, when he still believed. Not anymore. In the twisted vine dogma of the Order emerged one truth and that truth could not be forgotten, even when had Joshua had travelled half the world and lived more than half a decade. He could not scrape it away, could not scrub it, could not purge it, no matter how hard he tried, and here the truth was, standing in front of him, as golden-haired and beautiful as the day they parted.

Joshua remembers so little — why couldn’t he forget how much he had missed Jeonghan?

“What are you doing here? How can you be here?” Jeonghan’s words are awkward. Fractured syllables. He hasn’t spoken in his mother tongue for just as long.

And Joshua cannot give him those answers, wouldn’t even be able to formulate the words needed, and doesn’t even know how he’d explain. How do you condense the spirallings of six years to a single sentence, how is it possible to convey everything and anything in the most limited time possible, where each word has the power to be dangerous? All he says is all that really matters, and he says it in the simplest way possible. “I missed you.”

Joshua is familiar with the intricacies of Jeonghan’s face. Such is the result of seeing it daily for half his life. He’d be able to map it out in his sleep, the curve of his cheekbones as it moves into his jaw, the shape of his eyes that encompassed a perpetual storm, and his plush lips whether they were smiling or frowning. And yet, Joshua knew that time had played its hand and that the natural progression of the years had not skipped over Jeonghan. He looks different, naturally so — but when his face breaks out into a smile, he’s every bit the Jeonghan that Joshua remembers.

“It is you.” Jeonghan opens and closes his mouth several times, clearly struggling with the long forgotten language, his mind too complex for the limitations of his vocabulary in an unfamiliar tongue and settles for: “I found you.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” Joshua's words hover in the air. He doesn't speak loudly but the decibels crash around.

There’s the span of two continents between the Citadel and the Black Mire. The sum of more than four different lands. The journey itself is about a month to two, and it’s by no means an easy one. The roads are precarious even for the most seasoned of travellers, even for witch hunters, and they would face dangers beyond what they were trained for. Bandits roam the area with the same frequency as the wolves. Even the sky would attempt to thwart them between the pouring rain and blistering heat — being at the complete mercy of the elements. Joshua knows how hard it is, he’s had to experience it himself, and when he came out of it, he was not the same person who left the Citadel. And yet, here was Jeonghan, here he was, having travelled that same unfathomable distance and he stands in front of Joshua looking at him like it had all been worth it for this very moment.

Joshua wants to succumb to the reckless urge that uncurls itself from his mind but stops himself before the thought even crystalizes.

“Excuse me, what exactly are you saying?” Soonyoung interjects, and the world around them reappears in startling clarity — and then ignites in flames. Joshua realizes the reality of the situation and the _danger_.

Jeonghan stares back at Soonyoung, blinking. “I know him. I know who he is.”

“What are you _saying_?” Soonyoung repeats.

“Sorry, we’re speaking the language of our hometown.” _Our._ He says it so effortlessly.

“I assumed as much.” His words are edged with bitterness. “Does he know anything about the witch? Or are you just having a nice chat with someone you used to know?”

Jeonghan’s gaze drifts back to Joshua. “We’ll talk later,” he says in their native language, and then effortlessly switches back. “I intend to get a grasp about the town and its inhabitants from him. He told me he's willing to cooperate.”

Joshua said no such thing, and he most certainly would not be cooperating, but there’s very little he could say.

“Well, at least that’s some sort of lead. Better than what we were working on so far,” Soonyoung says. “I’m sick of this rain. Can you show us to an inn? Or some sort of lodging?”

It’s impossible to focus on anything but Jeonghan. He’s just there, in front of him, breathing, heart beating, _real_. “Yes,” Joshua finally says. “Follow me. It’s the building on the left, with the chimney.”

Soonyoung grabs his satchel off the ground and kicks dirt into the fire before setting out in the direction, clearly waiting for Joshua to follow. And Joshua does not have much of a choice, and sees no other option than to lead him into the inn, Jeonghan trailing behind him, quietly.

He’s out of his depth, Joshua realizes that. He’s jumped into a puddle and found that it’s the entire ocean. Of a thousand dreams of a reunion, Joshua never had considered this one. The one where Joshua’s hands shake as he opens the door to the inn, the one where he thinks of the locked chest under his bed, the way he keeps looking at Jeonghan’s slender fingers, the rings that mark his middle finger, the ones they had forged together under the glow of the Academy's crucible.

****

The interior of the noisy inn gives Joshua the chance to look at Jeonghan, really _look_ at him, at what the sum of six years’ difference was. What once was a mane of cropped and unruly blonde locks has been tamed to a frightening degree. Jeonghan’s hair is pulled into a severe ponytail, tucked into his outer cloak, and while Joshua has no way of discerning how long it is, it’s enough just to realize it is _long_.

He looks so much like Joshua remembers.

“Soonyoung, could you arrange the accommodation for us?” Jeonghan asks. Soonyoung’s eyes narrow in distaste.

“Really?”

“If you’d be so kind to. I’ll get us a table and some warm drinks.” The way Jeonghan speaks to Soonyoung reminds Joshua of the way that trappers placate wild animals. Calming words in a soothing tone, all the while keeping a careful eye on what’s in front of them, ready to run at the sign of fangs.

“Fine,” Soonyoung says, and turns on his heel.

Joshua’s mind is preoccupied with excuses and explanations. The truth is not meant to be heard, that much is certain. So he needs a lie, and he needs a good one, one that accounts for why he’s here. He goes through the possibilities, and they start to jumble together in the chaos of his head. There has to be some string of words, some possible excuse that will absolve Joshua of his poorly done deeds. And when Jeonghan looks at him, he’s still thinking. “I—”

The air gets knocked out of his lungs with the force that Jeonghan pushes himself into his embrace. He’s just suddenly _there_ , all warm-bodied and firm against him, his arms pulling Joshua closer towards him, and Joshua cannot stop himself from melting into his hold, it’s an insticitual reflex. It’s Jeonghan, it’s him, it’s really _Jeonghan_ , he’s here and he’s real and he’s currently breathing into the crook of Joshua’s neck as if nothing else matters, and six years vanish the moment he feels the heat of Jeonghan’s breath.

“I found you,” Jeonghan keeps repeating into his skin. It sparks.

He could never make a copy of this. He could reminisce about Jeonghan’s voice, admire the way his body curves, perhaps even laugh at quips he’s made in the past but his mind would always be flawed, unable to replicate the absolute safety he feels in Jeonghan’s arms, like the whole world ceased to mean anything. He has Jeonghan back. He never thought he would but here he is, he’s _here_ , in his arms.

Joshua doesn’t think he’s ever held something so precious in his embrace until he’s held Jeonghan. He slides his hands upwards to cradle Jeonghan’s jaw and locks their gazes together and for a moment, he allows himself what he’s wants to do, what he always wanted to do. To stare, unabashedly, at how absolutely radiant Jeonghan is, at how he’s always been.

And then Jeonghan smiles.

And the rest of the world seems to come back in colour, and Joshua takes a step back. “People are watching,” he mutters under his breath. That’s not entirely untrue. People are regarding them with little interest, and most of them have barely seen a witch hunter in a book, let alone in person, but Joshua is very careful about his actions and who sees them.

“Right. Yes, of course,” Jeonghan says, and he effortlessly slips back into his formal demeanour. “I apologize. I just never expected to see you here of all places… what are you doing _here_?”

Joshua wishes he held on for a moment longer. His hands already ache to clutch onto him again.“I live here.”

“What do you mean you live here, that’s not possible, you…” and then it seems to hit Jeonghan, all at once. “You’re from the North. You attended the Academy at the Citadel. You’re a witch hunter.”

“I live here,” Joshua repeats, and his mouth is dry.

Joshua, who knows Jeonghan’s face so intimately well, is very much aware that he’s never seen Jeonghan look as shattered as he does now. “But you can’t just…”

“You said you were going to get a table. You probably should,” Joshua says as gently as possible. In his mind, he’s already packing his bags, thinking of where he should hide until this all blows over. The Mire is a wet, unpleasant place without shelter, but it’s big and easy to hide in. He could curl up in the trunk of some ancient juniper tree and wait for the days to pass him by. Jeonghan would leave, and things could go back to how they were. 

But he can’t leave Seungkwan behind, not alone.

When Jeonghan makes it to the table, he orders, gesturing for Joshua to as well— but he merely shakes his head. He needs to leave. He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a place for him, he’s not one of the hunters, he has a home. Jeonghan has grown quiet, lost in his own thoughts as he attempts to complete the puzzle of why Joshua is here, even as he misses most of the pieces.

“Joshua, you can't just… you know you can't leave the Order. That's called defection." His breath hitches, hesitant to even speak those forbidden words into existence. “That's a crime.”

Joshua is aware it’s a crime. He’s also aware of the punishment, he’s memorized it, printed it in the walls of his mind. At best, re-education — torturous and time-consuming. At worst, execution. He’s thought about it sometimes, back in the early days. When he just arrived here, he used to torture himself with these fantasies of his own demise. If they’d hang him from the tallest trees, a little morbid landmark for the travellers below that he’d see with listless eyes. Or if they'd offer him the same fate he offered those before: burning.

“Do you plan on turning me in?” Joshua asks, and he tries to make it sound like a joke. It doesn’t sound like one.

“I can’t. Only an Inquisitor could do that,” Jeonghan says, and that’s all he really needed to say to make it very clear where his priorities lie. With the Order of Witch Hunters. Where it’s _supposed_ to, so Joshua has no right to feel upset. That's what he tells himself, even as his hands shake against his sides.

 Jeonghan must realize the change in Joshua’s face because he instantly shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s not… I wouldn’t inform the Order. You know I wouldn’t do that to you. But Joshua, you must realize I’m understandably confused.”

“As am I,” Joshua says, but that’s not really true. Jeonghan’s here for an extremely logical reason. He’s trained to hunt out mages, particularly those that are powerful and unrestrained, and Seungkwan is the perfect example of such a person. He’s here under the banner of his Order, there’s no coincidence about his arrival. It's Joshua that's the perplexing one in this situation, the one who doesn't seem to have a good reason for being here, who just has his own awkwardly-shaped truth.

What defined their bond was their lack of reliance on words. Joshua loved to talk to Jeonghan, he was as witty as he was beautiful, but the consequence of Academy life left very little time for idle chatter. Being able to look at each other across a classroom and _understand_ was a skill that they learnt quickly and unintentionally. It means that Joshua knows how Jeonghan feels, before he even speaks.

It means that Joshua knows, right now, that Jeonghan is devastated. His eyes are wide, searching for something in Joshua's expression that he knows he won't find.

“Joshua, did you really defect from the Order?” Jeonghan says, voice low and unsure. “Did you betray us?”

No. He didn't betray them. Betrayal is personal, betrayal is cutting the muscles from skin, betrayal _hurts_. What Joshua did was leave, and that was loss. That was segmenting every part of himself in a box and sending it out on the river, till all that remained was the husk of what he used to be.

“I didn't belong there anymore.”

“How can you say that, Joshua? You were with the Order for most of your life, I can't begin to think what could ever make you think otherwise.”

He'd tell him, if Jeonghan would understand - but Joshua doesn't think he would.

“I’m happy to see you again, Jeonghan, but I don’t think this is quite the reunion either of us hoped for. I don’t want to put you in a position where you have to choose between the Order and…” Joshua trails off. He doesn’t want to add ‘ _and me_ ’. It just feels too intense, striking a tree on fire instead of lighting a candle.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan breathes out, and his eyes are wide with panic. Joshua hadn’t realized how much he missed his voice. “Don’t leave, please. You can’t just leave, I just found you. _Please_.”

The air is thick with the smell of cheap alcohol. An amorous couple shoves past Joshua, their hands unable to detach from each other. In the brief moment that the door swings open, the cool morning breeze reminds him that there’s a world outside. The urge to run has never been stronger.

“According to the Order, you’ve been missing in action for four years,” Jeonghan says, breathing deeply. “I thought you were _dead_.”

It’s best that they thought that. The reality was far more disappointing.

“You can’t have been here all this time, in the middle of nowhere,” Jeonghan despairs — and then he realizes. “Of course,” he whispers, brow furrowed with understanding. “Of course, now it makes sense. You’re here because you’re in hiding, aren’t you?”

“I’m not in _hiding_ ,” Joshua says, and something about the assertion makes him grit his teeth. He was not a coward, he did not find a section of the world to curl up in defeat. He'd accept being branded as a traitor — nothing more.

“Right, because you want to be in this foul swamp willingly?” And if that’s not Jeonghan returning back to his normal self, having sufficiently recovered from the shock of it all. “Joshua, come on. I’m not going to report you to my Inquisitor. I’m curious as to exactly what series of events led quite possibly one of the finest of our cohort to end up like this.” It’s become a defense mechanism, hiding behind his formal vernacular.

“It doesn’t matter,” Joshua says, and it’s a weak answer, but there's very little he can say without putting himself and Seungkwan in jeopardy. Iron shields can’t protect him from Jeonghan’s clever tongue.

“Of course it does. So, as I can assume, certainly something monumental has happened to have landed you here. You're a considerable distance from the Citadel, and I don't think that is unintentional.”

Joshua quickly realizes why he’s feeling like this. It’s because Jeonghan’s treating him like he’s a witch. He’s seen firsthand the evolution of Jeonghan into the hunter that he is today, and he sees no difference in the technique. He’s interrogating him, using that tone of voice Jeonghan reserved for such encounters, all cloyingly sweet while being intentful. And Joshua knows enough about Jeonghan to know he’s not about to be tied to some stake for him. He will not be burnt.

“Jeonghan, I need to go,” he exhales, even if it hurts him to say it. He has to. “And you have a job to do. I think it’s best if we just leave it at this. I wish it could be different, but I don’t think it can be,” Joshua gets to his feet and from prior knowledge, he assumes that Jeonghan would be angry. He doesn’t expect him to grab his arm, and look imploringly into his eyes.

“Joshua, don’t leave. Please. Don’t leave again.” He gazes at the approaching Soonyoung, and talks quickly, under his breath. “I have to do my duty, sort out the arrangements. But will you come back in an hour? Please? I just want to talk.”

“Your friend’s still here,” Soonyoung remarks, walking up to the table. He wears a frown like it’s an accessory.

It's the escape he's been wanting and Joshua grabs it.

“I’m on my way out. Farewell hunters,” Joshua nods, pulling his hood over his head.

He doesn’t spare Jeonghan a single glance more — but that doesn’t stop him from hearing him say, in fragmented, awkward syllables of a forgotten language: “ _I miss you_.”  

       
****

Joshua is not a coward. While he would not be so far as to brand the marks of valour into his skin, he knew he was not a coward. The Academy purged those kind of weaknesses early in his training, and even had they not, they would not find much of a home in him. He knew the extent of himself, mapped out the walls of his own body, knew what he could handle and knew what he could overcome. As someone who had been fairly certain he faced his own death some years ago, it's sort of put everything in perspective since.

And it’s this perspective that tells Joshua to avoid Jeonghan. Joshua longs to trust Jeonghan but knows he is unable to, that they live on different pages of different books. It’s not what it once was. It took him far too long to reconstruct his identity, to find his place in this world and even if it’s ill-fitting, it’s still one for him. He doesn’t go back to the inn, and has no intentions of returning ever again either.

 

****

 

He speaks to Seungcheol in hushed whispers. They’re in his garden, not wanting to disturb his wife with such worrisome news. Seungcheol occupies his hands as he digs into the soil, rearranging his herb garden, but it’s clear he’s affected. Joshua tries to relay the facts alone, makes no mention of his relationship to Jeonghan, refers to him as ‘hunter’ and he amazes himself at how convincing he sounds. A frown sets itself in Seungcheol’s brow and it doesn’t leave. He periodically looks over the fence, at the thatched roof of Seungkwan’s house, afraid to walk closer and to greet the hidden mage. Joshua tries to restrict his focus on the problem at hand, the ever-present danger of the situation but all that seems to occupy his thoughts is that…

He's here. It's a fact so unbelievable that Joshua has to keep reminding himself, tucking it into the corner of his mind like a handkerchief in his coat pocket. The reality that Jeonghan, bred from a dynasty of witch hunters, whose reputation preceded him, was here in this grotty swamp with its perpetual humidity and fat black beetles that ran into his boots.

It helps if he divorces himself from the situation, if he allows himself the bliss of ignorance. That on a purely factual basis, it makes perfect sense: a witch hunter is here to find a witch. It's when the details come into play that Joshua finds himself overwhelmed in the chaos that has been thrust upon him.

Jeonghan is Joshua's most threadbare memory. The one he takes out on cold, lonely evenings and wraps around himself, the one that has holes all over it the origins of which long lost to time, the one which should have been given away years past but Joshua just can't seem to let go.

It's defying his own rules when he lets his thought drift. He knows he's doing what he's not supposed to do. He tries his best not to dwell on what his guilt-shrouded past used to be like, and when he does, the weight hangs over him like the cloak he used to wear.  And it's not like there's much joy to think about when it comes to that forgotten part of his life. Does he care to relive the sounds of swords clanging together as he was forced to repeat the same drill for the twenty-ninth time that day or would he prefer something far more insidious, like the first time he saw a witch burn, the flames licking into the sky?

It's no surprise that his mind clings to Jeonghan because thoughts of Jeonghan are just… wonderful. Because Jeonghan is _wonderful_. The only good thing the Order ever did was produce Jeonghan. He may have been the sum of a line of Inquisitors so prestigious their name was entwined to the organization, but that never mattered to Joshua, he could have been anyone, he _was_ anyone. And then he just wasn't — then he was everything.

Seungcheol murmurs to himself comforting but meaningless words. “It’ll be fine, Joshua. We’ll get through this. All of us will.”

Seungcheol and Joshua know each other like looking into mirrors. Seungcheol is surface level water, he's blunt in the best way, caring in the worst. He's lived in the Mire all his life, and has the kind of fondness for it that can't be bought. In the first few months of knowing him Seungcheol’s trust was still weary for reasons all understandable. It took time before Joshua has peeled away all that Seungcheol is and all that he stands for. The men he trusts and the wife he loves and the children he dreams about having one day. A mirror, indiscriminate in what it shows Joshua.

And Joshua is a corner, barely able to be seen, little more than a glimpse. Seungcheol knows the important facts. It was his decision to let him in after all, and Joshua will never be able to thank him enough for giving him that opportunity. But facts are corners, facts only show the situation boiled down to it's bare parts, and if there's anything Joshua's learnt, is how to reconstruct himself from bare parts.

There’s no need to delve deeper, no need to sit Seungcheol down and explain why he knows exactly who the blonde hunter is, and why his presence here is perhaps even more dangerous than anyone else’s. Seungcheol will worry, and there’s no need for that. Let Joshua take on this burden, he’s accustomed to the weight.

 

****

 

The extent of Seungkwan’s magical abilities is difficult to determine. There’s no standard quantification, no percentage of power someone would be able to discern. That being said, Joshua would humbly say he has a certain amount of authority on the topic. Eight years of training, and two years practical experience under Inquisitors of incredible repute to be specific. He knows about magic because it’s all he learnt about for his entire childhood. While the Order universally condemns all mages to be ‘dangerous’, it is understood that certain mages are more harmful than others, and that’s separated in the categories of intent and ability.

More often that not, the hunters deal with those of malevolent intent. If destruction is desired, magic employs the swiftest means to achieve this. It’s why the Order of Witch Hunters was created all those centuries ago, when witches devoted themselves to the idea of unquestionable rule over the world. There was a purpose in what the hunters did then, and they were needed. The thing about intent is that no matter how infantile magic might be, barely flickers of flames on fingertips: even that can burn.

Seungkwan is not like that.

Seungkwan might be the most powerful witch in the world. Joshua is not prone to such superlatives, but the fact remains Seungkwan picks up coal and fashions them into gold with the ease of breathing. It was terrifying the first time he did it, spectacular the second and now, a hundred times later, it still mystifies him.

Logically, that’s probably why Seungkwan has been unnoticed for so long. He lacks any capacity to intentionally cause harm, and Joshua has seen that first hand. Where others raise their fists or swords, Seungkwan merely grins, waves his stubby hands and most likely causes a flower to bloom on the spot. There’s no trace of _darkness_ in him, he’s always been the perpetual sunlight even in a swamp as murky as this one. The Order would never have noticed someone like Seungkwan who defies the traditional image of the malicious witch.

But what Seungkwan lacks in intent, he makes up for in ability. He is nothing short of prodigious, and Joshua has spent the past four years becoming aware of that fact. He wonders just how much more Seungkwan will be able to achieve if he ever had proper training: he’s so young and he’s already purged incurable illnesses out of blood, he’s manifested fire out of air. His magic seems boundless, spurts out from his eyelids, there’s just so much bubbling inside of him it’s uncontrollable — but Joshua has learnt how to care for him, how to stop Seungkwan from collapsing the walls around them.

In terms of that alone, he can understand why the hunters seem to have an interest in him, and it seems that the only reason they haven’t sent an entire Inquisition is based on what little information they have. The Black Mire is a loathsome place, little communication emerges from such a remote swamp — but it doesn’t seem like Jeonghan at all to join an investigation hanging on something as baseless as a rumour.

But Joshua is hardly the best judge of Jeonghan’s character anymore.

He finds the door locked when he arrives and can only assume it was Seungcheol’s doing. He reaches in his coat pocket and is grateful to find his fingertips curl around the key. He lets himself in and to the best of his ability, tries to replicate his normal routine. He washes his hands, prepares himself a simple meal and tries to forget about witch hunters and magic and Jeonghan.

It doesn’t work.

Joshua has always struggled with this, feeling like his shoulders were perpetually weary as they buckled underneath the weight of the world. And this just in particular feels a bit too much, feels like he can’t take much more. He curses the way his heart leaps at the mere thought of seeing Jeonghan again, of the way every time he has to restrain his thoughts from spiralling out of control, rehashing the memory of that fleeting embrace and the consequent emptiness that followed.

If you’ve lived so long without enough water, you learn to live with the perpetual thirst, you learned to accept that life is just never going to be what it used to be, that a parched throat is all that’s left. And Joshua had been satisfied with that. And then he had to see him again, and that was all it took— the barest hint of a possibility, just sight alone, a smile, the cascade of his hair and Joshua wasn't prepared for this burning to return, to remember what it used to be like.

He knows that Seungkwan is probably wasting away in boredom, hidden in the attic, but Joshua doesn’t feel like he has the strength necessary to speak to him. Not right now, not when it’s all too fresh. He needs time to process everything. He needs time to accept that Jeonghan is back for now, but he will leave again.

He tries to remind himself that he’ll be okay with that. He doesn’t think he believes himself. He drags himself to bed, and when he sinks down into the sheets, he exhales.

It’s not the first time Joshua goes to sleep without saying goodnight to Seungkwan. The attic is somewhat of his workshop, part-alchemy, part-herbalist and more often than not, he’ll work through into the early hours of the morning, the hissing steam of his cauldron wafting through the entire house. Of course, he wouldn’t dare experiment with potions at a time like this, and the noticeable lack of noise from the attic suggests to Joshua he’s already asleep, most likely curled up like a puppy on the cushions Wonwoo had dragged upstairs many months ago.

Barely minutes later, Joshua feels a weight on top of him.

“ _Seungkwan_ ,” Joshua sighs as he attempts to free himself. “You’re crushing me.”

“You didn’t even say hello to me. This is what you deserve,” Seungkwan mumbles, tucking his head underneath Joshua’s chin.

“I was tired. I thought you were sleeping.”

“You have all this time to make excuses but no time to greet me?” Seungkwan prods a finger into Joshua’s side. “I was worried, you know?”

“Why?” If there’s anyone Seungkwan should be concerned about, it should be himself.

“What if they took you back?” It sounds like the most obvious thing in the world. “Seungcheol told me you were in a state when you saw them.” He whispers the words in the skin of his neck, and Joshua lets them wash over him.

“Do you want to come under the covers?” he finally says, and Seungkwan detaches himself only to crawl in next to Joshua. He's a furnace radiating warmth, and while the rain continues outside, Joshua doesn't feel the cold— not with the way Seungkwan wraps himself around Joshua's body, curling his arms around his waist.

“I’m glad you came home.”

At first, it was difficult for Joshua to grow accustomed to how physically affectionate Seungkwan was. This kind of contact, the idea of _cuddling_ , was not even bothered to be forbidden at the Academy — it was too unrealistic to even be a rule. Fraternization was universally banned up until graduation and quite reasonably so, the training of witch hunters is not some sort of summer camp. But even after, it was perhaps the effects of years of neglect, but Joshua had found it uncomfortable with the way the outside world seemed to touch so carelessly, as if they _weren’t_ worried about an Inquisitor watching over their shoulder.

Seungkwan in particular had no reservations about throwing himself at Joshua at all opportunities, squeezing him in a hug at his every whim and slinging his arm around him in the middle of conversations. It had taken a very long time for Joshua to stop cringing every time he felt the warm feel of his skin surround him. But it’s been years now, and he can’t deny the kind of security that he feels when Seungkwan decides he wants to wrap himself around Joshua. It reminded him that there was at least one person in the world who enjoyed his company.

“Were you okay in the attic?”

“Obviously,” Seungkwan snorts. “I played with the pigeons.”

“And did you have dinner?”

“Joshua,” Seungkwan says in a tone of exasperation. “Tell me about the hunters.”

Joshua freezes, but Seungkwan just hugs him tighter. “Are you sure?” Joshua asks, “It’s so late. Wouldn’t you rather just go to sleep?”

It’s not something that happens often, but Seungkwan falling asleep in Joshua’s bed has happened often enough that he doesn’t particularly mind anymore. Sometimes it’s just for his own safety. There’s been occasions where even asleep, he’s caused the curtains to burst into flames.

“Please?”

Joshua speaks in a measured tone. “There’s two of them. They’re after a witch hiding in the Mire. It’s all based on rumours, they have no idea who they’re looking for or where they are.” Seungkwan visibly tenses and Joshua cautiously runs a hand through his head of blonde hair.

“I wonder who it is,” Seungkwan jokes. “I’ve noticed Wonwoo looking particularly suspicious lately. Think he might be able to turn people into frogs?”

Joshua summons up a hollow half-laugh, continuing to thread his fingers through Seungkwan’s hair. “That’s certainly a good theory, I’ll pass it along. They did ask for information from the locals, after all.”

“Do you think anyone will tell?” Seungkwan asks. The room is dark, barely any light filtering through, but Joshua wouldn’t need light to know that Seungkwan’s eyes are wide with fear.

“No,” Joshua says, and surprises himself with his own conviction. “No, they won’t. Anyone who you’ve ever helped would never say anything, they’re all too grateful. I think you’d just have to worry that they’d find you by their own methods.”

“Their own methods?” he repeats. “Do you think they’ll find me?” His voice shakes. The guilt that rusts inside of Joshua’s insides begins to peel.

“Of course not,” Joshua says with false assurance. “You know that would never happen. You just need to stay up in the attic for a while.”

“When I’m in there for too long, it starts to smell.”

“I know Seungkwan, I know. But it’s just for a little while. I’m sure they’ll just be here for a week or two, and Jeonghan will realize that this is pointless and they’ll go back to the Citadel.” He tries to sound as placating as possible, and thought he was doing an acceptable job, and therefore doesn’t understand why Seungkwan freezes up.

“You know their name?”

And Joshua’s mouth clamps shut.

Seungkwan shifts, sitting up. He clicks his fingers and the room bathes itself in an ethereal glow, celestial yellow shapes spinning on the walls. The expression on his face is unreadable and Joshua rubs his eyes with the back of his hands, trying to adjust to the change in light.

Joshua had never intended to tell Seungkwan about Jeonghan. Joshua had never intended to tell _anyone_ about Jeonghan. For one, if he ever said something it meant it was real. It meant that Jeonghan was actually here, and that was a reality Joshua wasn't ready to face. And Joshua didn’t talk about his past, that was an agreement. They didn’t ask and he didn’t tell. It was better for everyone. He wasn’t that person anymore, and any reminders were the most bitter taste in his mouth.

There's a whole host of logical reasons as to why Joshua didn't tell the others about Jeonghan but the simple one is that Jeonghan is too personal to Joshua. Talking about Jeonghan would meant sitting down and telling their history, telling them about how they met when they were short and had loose milk teeth, and how they grew up together and they weren’t so short anymore, how Joshua watched him flourish and flower into the man he was when they parted ways. And that was just a bit too much for someone who spent the last few years trying to forget most of his life.

“Joshua?” Seungkwan’s voice is soft. “Do you know them?”

“I know one of them.”

“Does he know it’s you?” is the next question, and it burns in Joshua’s chest.

“Yes. He knows it’s me.”

The light becomes brighter. “If he tries to take you back, I won’t let him, you hear me?”

Joshua laughs in the most brittle of ways, like the sound might snap halfway through. “I don’t think he’s going to try and drag me back. He can’t do much, anyway. Defectors are under the jurisdiction of Inquisitors only, and neither of them are Inquisitors. I’m okay.”

Seungkwan doesn’t look convinced. “But they surely won’t just let you run around freely? That doesn’t sound like the Order we both know.”

“Guess I’m lucky, then,” Joshua jokes.

It takes only a second for Seungkwan to look at Joshua’s face and say: “You’re hiding something from me.”

“That shouldn’t be too much of a surprise. Seungkwan, it’s pages from a different book. It doesn’t matter.” It’s an old expression. He can’t remember where he heard it.

“Of course it matters Joshua. You matter.” He clicks his fingers and the light disappears and with it, the visible affection in Seungkwan’s eyes and for that Joshua’s grateful, because he doesn’t like having to look at something so pure. He feels Seungkwan settle in next to Joshua again, slotting his body next to his, finding the coolest spot on the pillow. “You don’t have to tell me, I wouldn’t make you. But if you do want to, you know I trust you and I’d listen.”

Seungkwan must have almost drifted off to sleep when Joshua speaks again. “To call him my best friend makes it sound childish. It’s true, but it was much more than that.”

“Jeonghan?” Seungkwan tests the name in his mouth.

And there it is. Seungkwan speaks his name and it’s like it falls to the ground like shattered ice. “Yes. Jeonghan. We grew up together. We trained together.” His throat feels dry. “I’ve been with him in my life than longer than I’ve been without.”

“Oh Joshua, this is someone who meant something to you,” Seungkwan says, and the pity in his voice is what hurts.

“I haven’t seen him in years. Since graduation. That’s six years.”

“People change a lot in six years,” Seungkwan says, and if that doesn’t explain everything. He feels his hand being squeezed. “What did he say when he saw you?”

 “He was happy to see me. I was happy to see him,” Joshua murmurs. The warmth of Seungkwan’s hand grounds him, and he unchains his throat, lets himself be honest. “And then we both realized the reality of our situation. I think he wanted to talk, but I didn’t let him. I don’t want to say anything to him. I can’t risk you, after all,” Joshua says.

There’s a noticeable change in the air.

“Thank you,” Seungkwan says and he seems more reserved than usual.

Seungkwan shouldn’t feel like he has to thank him for sparing his life. Joshua would tell him that it’s not even a choice, that Seungkwan’s life is of such importance to him — but Seungkwan never needed such declarations.

“Do you think you’ll see him again?”

“And tell him what?”

“I don’t know, Joshua, but I’m sure there’s something,” Seungkwan exhales. He closes his eyes, fits himself next to Joshua. “Six years is a long time.”

“I can’t,” Joshua says. He can’t. If he starts talking to Jeonghan again, if he starts _knowing_ Jeonghan again, it might be too painful to stop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my absolute gratitude goes to [shauna](https://twitter.com/pinkwinwin) for tirelessly betaing this for me and giving me the most wonderful companionship throughout writing this, I love you to pieces. hyb, my favourite vampire, has been absolutely essential and gives the best advice in the world, and i have to thank len, riley, and aubrey, the twitter gang! and as always, my love to steph 💕


	2. Incipient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my eternal gratitude to shauna for being a beta that is downright superhuman (potentially a ghost, we'll see). please enjoy your trip to the swamp 💕

Joshua lives for the moments between remembering. It’s those brief seconds between memories, when mangled emotions struggle to stretch themselves out, faded and malformed. They solidify slowly, and it’s feeling before thinking, it’s base emotion that he feels in his chest before anything else. In the ephemeral haze of thought, it’s that which distinguishes faster than logic, and it’s in those few seconds, that Joshua can live without having to acknowledge reality, he can just _feel_. If he could, he’d drag the mist till it smothers him, wraps it around his mind once, twice, three times, wrap it until the world around him is blacked out.

It’s escapism in its most naked form, and perhaps such forms of fraternization were not allowed in his past life, but in this one he has no such limitations, and relishes in this bare-skinned fantasy. He has to bear such heavy burdens, and brief ignorance is one of the few pleasures he has left.  

It’s an indulgence that comes often, and in a very particular pattern, and it’s one where the stitching begins with thinking about Jeonghan and the stitching _ends_ with thinking about Jeonghan. Joy engulfs him at the realization that he’s just there, just a stone’s throw away, his oldest friend and closest companion from a world away, golden-haired and golden-smiled. And then, he _remembers_ , and then it’s an overwhelming sorrow that it’s _Jeonghan_ , who wears the rings of the Order more proudly than the smirk on his face.

“Are you avoiding me?”

It’s the same pattern.

At first, it’s familiarity. Indisputably, it’s Jeonghan’s voice and Joshua is about to turn around and laugh that _of course he isn’t avoiding him_ , Jeonghan is just being dramatic. And it’s just a second before he realizes — barely a blink in time, but oh, if Joshua could, he’d live on that second, build his home on that second till it stretches out to an eternity.

Immediately after that moment passes, he’s wrenched away from his comfortable little infinity — because he remembers, and once he remembers, it’s impossible to forget.

“Do you think I am?” Joshua answers and attempts to sound as nonchalant as possible. His thoughts burn a hole at the base of his skull.

“I hope you’d forgive my optimism if I dared to believe you’d be happy to see me again,” Jeonghan says. He tucks a strand of golden hair behind his ear. “It’s been years, Joshua.”

“Of course I’m happy to see you,” Joshua replies. It’s not a lie. “I’ve just…”

“You never came back to the inn.”

It’s a statement, and not one open to objections. Joshua remains silent, letting the shame wash over him. It seems all that was needed was a night for the revival of the Mire’s dormant rumour mill.  Most residents have never seen hunters in the flesh before, mystified by the dignity with which they walk, the strange insignia, their clothes that seem more like armour and the one item of indulgence they seem to possess: their rings.  Wherever the two walk, everyone leaves a wide berth around them. Out of respect, perhaps, but for Joshua, it would always be because of fear.

Logically he knows that Jeonghan is in proximity to him, but that doesn’t seem to exist with the rest of his reality, and when Joshua left his house this morning, he didn’t expect to find Jeonghan just _here_ , outside of the inn, a half-empty mug waiting on the outdoor table, like he’s belonged here his entire life. He had risen when Joshua saw him, and there was nothing he could have done, not unless he was prepared to turn the other way and run. And he wouldn’t do that. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Cowardice would never make a home in Joshua’s skin.  

“I just didn’t think I’d ever see you here of all places,” Joshua finally says and that’s perhaps the first truth he’s felt comfortable saying. “And I wasn’t sure what to say to you.”

Jeonghan’s face makes no effort to hide its disapproval. “In our lifetime of knowing each other, I don’t recall that we ever had the problem of not being able to talk to each other.”

“Circumstances have changed.”

“I wish you’d trust me more,” he says. The rings adorning his left hand say otherwise.

“I don’t think the problem here is trust,” Joshua says, and it’s almost humorous how in lieu of anything better to say, he falls back on smalltalk. It’s certainly easier than answering any of his countless questions. “How are you finding the Mire?”

“It’s awful,” Jeonghan snorts. “It’s humid, it’s muddy, my horse hates it and my shoes have been caked with dirt ever since I got here.” Jeonghan considers Joshua. “I can’t really understand why you’d choose to live here. Or why anyone would.”

It’s no surprise that Jeonghan holds the Mire in such disrepute. He’s always been an individual who prides himself on elegance and luxury, a consequence of being the son of such a revered and rich lineage. And, even if Joshua was accustomed to these conditions, he can’t really argue with any of the points raised, not while he can feel the moisture creeping into his boots even as he stands.

“It has certain charms.”

“If it does, I have yet to meet them,” Jeonghan says, gazing distastefully at the reeds that encircle him. He crushes the inflorescence under his feet. “Joshua, why are you here?”

“I live here.”

Jeonghan scoffs. “I can’t begin to fathom why you’d sacrifice the class and elegance of the Citadel in exchange for dead juniper trees and wet soil. Sweat clings to my skin like it’s another shirt.” Joshua wishes he didn’t find Jeonghan’s complaining sort of endearing.

“It has some appeal,” Joshua insists. He wouldn’t go as far as to call himself patriotic towards the Mire, but one cannot live in a place for so long and not develop even a passing fondness for it. “I’d wager you’ve never seen some of the lakes at night. No one can deny a sight like that.”

“I haven’t, but I’ve also seen what a glass of water looks like in the dark, so I don’t feel like I’m missing out on too much, it’s just a question of scale isn’t it?” Jeonghan says, with absolute ignorance of the view he’s dismissing. “Doesn’t sound like it’ll be much of an improvement.” He turns around, as if worried someone might overhear him. “And it’s so noisy here, do you ever think about that?”

The shrill of the cicadas have become white noise to Joshua. Of course, the swamp would always be filled with sound, such is understandable when it teems with life. Under every rock it seems like there’s an entire community of insects, scuttling around, buzzing and chirping. Any sort of squeamishness had long since left Joshua, probably around the same time as the day he found a live fish in the toe of his socks.

“I think it’s kind of nice. Makes it seem lively,” Joshua says.

“You’d say that, but you didn’t have to deal with Soonyoung complaining that he woke up with mosquito bites all the way up to his chest.” He breaks off here to laugh bitterly. “As if I had anything to do with it! If I had the power to personally request swarms of bugs I would have done so weeks ago, around the time he started snoring.”

“Orange peels.”

Jeonghan blinks in bewilderment. “Orange peels?”

Joshua nods. He’s aware of how strangely Jeonghan is gazing at him but presses on. “Keep them at your bedside. It should keep the mosquitos away, or diminish them at the least. There’s more nuanced solutions, of course, things like poultices, but something as simple as that works.” Seungkwan had taught him that years earlier.

There’s a smile that crosses Jeonghan’s face. “Thank you, Joshua. I’ll do that.”

It’s pleasant, it’s so pleasant that Joshua is aware he shouldn’t be deceived by it, but can’t stop himself from revelling in the reality that he gets to see Jeonghan again, has the honour of viewing that thoughtful look of contemplation finished off with a grin. It’s far superior than any replication his imagination could conjure.

“Where is Soonyoung?” Joshua asks, and hesitates slightly, unsure if Jeonghan would insist upon using his title instead.

“Questioning. Alone.” As an afterthought, Jeonghan adds: “The same that I should be doing.”

That’s all Jeonghan needs to say to remind Joshua, to wrench him back from the house of facade he’d built.

“Well, don’t let me keep you from your work,” Joshua says. He sounds brittle.

Regret washes over Jeonghan’s face. “Joshua, can we talk?” His eyes are wide.

“I just don’t think I have much left to say.” The facts are already laid out there, the ones that matter. He’s defected, he lives here now. Anything more that he says just puts himself in danger — and draws their attention closer to Seungkwan. Joshua has nothing left to say, except perhaps, _sorry_ to Jeonghan, because it must hurt to gaze upon someone and feel nothing but disappointment.

“You’re just not going to tell me what’s happened to you in the last six years?”

“I don’t want to make things difficult for you, Jeonghan,” Joshua says. “You know enough to know why I’m holding back.”

Jeonghan’s hand clenches into a fist. “Is it too much to ask just to sit down? Just to talk? Just to ask how you are, what you’ve seen in the past few years?” The anger was what Joshua could handle — the sudden shift in Jeonghan’s demeanour to something softer, is not. “Did you ever go the ocean like you’ve always dreamed of?”

It feels like his throat is lined with glass. “I haven’t.”

Jeonghan steps closer. Distance remains between them but breaching the space with just a step is far more than Joshua anticipated, and he stands unsteadily. “I have,” Jeonghan says. “I’d tell you about it if you give me the chance.”

“Jeonghan,” Joshua murmurs. “You know I would if I could.”

“Who stops you?”

It’s so telling that Jeonghan asks ‘who’ and not ‘what’. Of the three fused rings that make up the set on his middle finger, it’s the third that represents the virtue of obedience, and it’s perhaps the first lesson Joshua ever learned. In the Order, there’s always a neatly defined code of ethics, of rules, there’s always a commander — an _Inquisitor_. Life outside those confines seems simpler, but the truth remains that there’s still delimitations on what can and cannot be done, but this time they’re self-defined.

“No one stops me, Jeonghan. But I don’t want to put you in a position where the Order asks questions about me that you know the answer to.”

“You’d never burden me,” Jeonghan says, effortlessly and Joshua’s breath catches in his throat. “Joshua, you know, I think—”

The door to the inn swings open and Mark promptly tosses out a man so drunk, his clothes reek of cheap mead. He falls roughly at the foot of the steps, and makes a half-hearted attempt to raise his head, before collapsing on the mud. Mark regards the two standing in front of his inn with a nod.

“Pardon the interruption, gentlemen, just taking out the trash,” Mark remarks. “Just leave him there, he’ll be fine by tomorrow.” With that, he promptly slams the door shut, and with it, the unsaid words on Jeonghan’s lips.

“There’s no such thing as a moment of privacy in this place, is there?” Jeonghan laughs. There’s a distinct hollow in the sound. “Still, if it’s around the time the drunks are getting thrown out, it means it’s almost time for me to meet Soonyoung. I need to…” he trails off.

“You should go,” Joshua says. All the way back to the Citadel, no, even further, he should go back to his home, go back to the hilly plains and stay there.

 

# 

 

Wonwoo’s hands are as warm as his smile as he emerges from the furnace. “I didn’t realize you’d be coming around, Joshua,” he says, wiping his hands on his apron. Soot streaks the olive green cloth.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Joshua says. “I was on my way home, had to pick up a few things from Nayoung and I thought I’d just stop by.” He balances the basket of fruit on the stool next to him. It wobbles under the weight.

“I don’t blame you for wanting an escape from that house,” Wonwoo says, undoing the cloth covering and selecting a rosy-tinted peach. “Mind if I?”

“Go ahead.” There’s the faint smell of iron in his workshop, and the familiarity is soothing.

Wonwoo sinks his teeth into the flesh of the fruit, squishy juice running down his fingers. “Really, I wouldn’t have survived half as long as you if I was stuck there. But then again, that’s why I don’t live with him.”

“What do you mean?” Joshua says, laughing awkwardly, although he has a fairly good idea exactly what Wonwoo is referring to.

“I _mean_ …” Wonwoo lowers his voice, “I can’t imagine Seungkwan’s being particularly easy to live with at the moment. He’s never enjoyed being cooped up like a chicken, and this is even worse than the floods of last year. He’s just in that attic all the time, isn’t he?”

Joshua really did try and force a smile. “It’s been difficult. I sympathize with him—” to which Wonwoo immediately nods in agreement, “but it’s not exactly _easy_. I don’t know the word for it, but he’s starting to get very… bored.”

It’s been the longest week of his life, Joshua’s fairly certain. He loves Seungkwan as much as he loves watching the two moon sky, but at least neither of the moons accidentally set his sleeves on fire twice this morning.

“Stir crazy is what I’d call it, and that’s maybe the politest way to put it. Has he been making you do anything strange?”

Joshua sighs, leaning against the wall. “He asked me to look out the window and describe the people walking past for an hour. He’s wanted you to come over, he’s wanted Seungcheol to come over, he’s even asked the farmer’s son to come over and bring a lute and a bottle of wine with him and I’ve had to tell him he _can’t_ have any visitors, it would look too suspicious. Especially considering…” 

“Especially considering what?” Wonwoo asks, tilting his head to the side, eyes reflected through his circular glasses.

Joshua freezes. “The hunters, of course.” He’s vague, unsure how much Seungcheol has told him, or how much he has surmised from his own careful observations. But there’s no reason to harbour suspicion, not from someone like Wonwoo. There’s a streak of grease across the back of his hand as he raises the peach to his lips.

“He’ll just have to understand it’s for the best. I can’t say I know much of witch hunters, but these two are unlike any others I’ve ever read.” Wonwoo hesitates before biting down. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course,” Joshua says, and perhaps out of paranoia, shuts the door of his workshop.

“One of them came to me this morning to question me,” Wonwoo says. “I didn’t even realize they knew who I was, but he called me by name, demanded to be let in, recited from the decree about the consequences of lying—”

“Which one?” Joshua interjects. The anxiety that sets in turns the smell of welded metal into revulsion. 

“I… I don’t think I caught his name,” Wonwoo says, blinking in confusion at the intrusion.

“Did he have blonde hair?”

Wonwoo stares. “No. It was steel grey.”

And then the weight on Joshua’s lungs is lifted. The very idea of Jeonghan intersecting his life with Wonwoo is one he would prefer not to dwell on. “Soonyoung, then. It was the hunter Soonyoung.”

“If you say so,” Wonwoo says, with noticeable confusion. “Regardless, I was not expecting this at all. He actually accused me of bewitching my wares. Went around my shop, poking his nose at every little sword, every piece of armour. I tried to tell him that those are few and far in between,” Wonwoo waves his arms, gestures to the scrap metal piled high. “I make trinkets, I make cooking utensils, I make _toys_ but he was highly adamant about inspecting everything.”

Normally, his desk would rarely be in a state of neatness, but certainly it would be in better condition that it is right now. A dollhouse with half its outer walls ripped out is currently being reassembled by Wonwoo, and there’s several screws and nails rolling around the table. His workshop is reflective of the man himself: scattered, with kindest intentions. 

“He didn’t find anything, did he?” Joshua asks, eyes wide. “Seungkwan hasn’t accidentally charmed something?”

“If he did, there’s some wild tea kettle running around the swamp now,” Wonwoo says with a breathy laugh. “The hunter didn’t find anything, and when he was satisfied that I wasn’t some secret magical blacksmith, he decided to interrogate me.” Wonwoo chews the last of the peach, throwing the pit into a trashcan littered with iron flakes. “I never realized how harrowing it could be to be on the side of that.”

Joshua had received barely a taste of what interrogation could be like.

“These hunters aren’t like normal people. They get in your head. You think you know who you are, and then… they make you think something else entirely.”

Joshua knows that very well, but he’s not sure if he empathizes more with Wonwoo or Soonyoung.

Wonwoo worries his lip, curly dark hair falling like a cloud. “For a moment, he really got to me. Started telling me how magic users were a danger to themselves, how if I actually cared about the witch, I’d tell him.”

A common interrogation tactic employed by the Order.

 “Said they could help him, fix him up in a place in the Citadel. He could learn medicine… they told me they wouldn’t burn him or anything, he’s done nothing wrong, and for a moment, I really thought that was for the best.”

“But you didn’t?” Joshua clarifies.

“No. Not at all.”    

It’s frightening that someone as firm as Wonwoo could be swayed in their beliefs, even for a moment, when he’s the singular oak in a swamp of cypress. Had Wonwoo been a fraction weaker, he most likely would have told Soonyoung everything — and would never have forgiven himself.

“The Order isn’t like anything else, I’ve learnt,” Wonwoo surmises. “The hunter, Soonyoung, right? He was adamant, asking me such specific questions about who I spend my time with, what I’ve done while I’m here.” And perhaps at seeing Joshua’s look of alarm, Wonwoo placates him with a smile. “Don’t worry, I just mentioned Seungcheol, his wife, some of the others. I didn’t betray you or Seungkwan.”

“I suppose if they’re going around knocking on doors that’s a good sign,” Joshua says, sighing. He reaches on Wonwoo’s desk, picking up the remnants of what seems to be a toy carriage. It has only one wheel that spins, but it’s elegantly crafted by his expert fingers.

“I fail to see how that’s a good sign,” Wonwoo says. When he frowns like this, his singular earring starts to dangle in place. “To me, that seems like it’s just a matter of time until he knocks on your door.”

“If they’re resorting to the same tactics that pottery salesman use to flog their wares, I think it’s safe to say they have no other leads.”

Wonwoo pauses to consider. “I hadn’t ever thought of that.”

Joshua feels his distinct sense of otherness stronger than ever.

“Well, Seungkwan’s safe in that attic. The locks on that door are the best I’ve ever made,” Wonwoo says. “Even if they find the attic, even if they manage to break in, it would be plenty of time for Seungkwan to just jump out the window or turn into a frog or whatever he does.”

“You don’t really know what Seungkwan’s capable of, do you?” Joshua says, a hint of amusement punctuating the somber atmosphere.

“Not particularly, no, but maybe that’s for the best. Means I can keep being questioned and smile broadly and assure them I know absolutely nothing about magic or witches.” Wonwoo lays his hand on the basket. “But I do think I’ll try and come around sometime later. They’ve already gotten what they want out of me, I don’t think they’ll be coming again, at least not soon.”  

But that’s not how hunters work. The protocol dictates that if the first round of questioning yields nothing, it is done again, harsher this time. Repeated until someone breaks or their face does from where it’s pressed against the grindstone. But Wonwoo wouldn’t know that, and Joshua will ensure that Wonwoo never does.

He’s not going to be able to avoid them forever. 

 

 

There’s a certain sense of foreboding that creeps through the Mire. It’s thinner than any morning fog, but _denser_. It’s weighted, it pulls everything down with it from the gnats in the air to the senescing leaves. Joshua’s body resists against this atmosphere as he makes his way further into the trees, eyes carefully trained on the ground in the low-light. Thesun has barely finished rising, not that it would make a difference in this season of overcast clouds and moody days, but as Seungkwan pointed out from the comfort of his cocoon, there’s never any better weather to harvest mushrooms.

“They’re very important, Joshua. I need at least twenty,” he had said, his voice grave.

“For a potion or something?”

“God, no, I just want a mushroom risotto.” And then upon seeing the look of indignation on Joshua’s face, followed up with: “Yes, actually, I’ve just remembered that it can cure leprosy.” Seungkwan’s set his face into a mask of sobriety. “Very important. Will save lives.”

There really wasn’t much argument to be had in the greater scheme of things. As much as early morning mushroom picking was one of the things Joshua would like to do least, there was little else he could do to spend his time. The fact remained that the closest thing to a job he had was assisting Seungkwan and caring for his well-being. Certainly his well-being was currently protected, if he wanted a damn mushroom risotto, Joshua wouldn’t be the one to refuse him.

Joshua’s boots are already sloshed with water but he’s been so desensitized to the process that he bears no more reaction than a sigh of resignation. Wading through the pools, he shakes himself off when he gets to the other side and kneels to the ground, fingers inspecting the stalk of the mushroom. It’s rubbery, and it’s caps are reminiscent of Seungkwan’s former hairstyle and the comparison blooms a smile across Joshua’s face as he picks them into his sack.

And then he hears hooves. 

It’s odd, of course. It’s a _swamp_ , and anyone who lives in a swamp knows that it’s not an environment suited for horses. Their hooves get entangled in the undergrowth and when they don’t, they skid across the moss. Their bodies become matted with the dirt and mud in a matter of moments, and the inherent nature of a marsh, the wilderness of the trees and water, makes it hard to ride at a pace faster than walking.

The only people who ride are visitors. There are plenty of explanations for why someone would be venturing through this part of the swamp, and plenty of potential people who would. Travelling salesman, bandits, those looking for a shortcut to the Western Ramparts.

But the fog has been dense with foreboding, which is why when Joshua looks up, staring at, he’s not surprised to see the witch hunters. He’s just _exhausted_.

Such a beautiful horse as Jeonghan’s black mare does not deserve to be caked in mud. He rides at a reasonable pace, Soonyoung closely following behind. Where the horses move, water gets kicked up, and Joshua flinches at the sound. It doesn’t look like Jeonghan spots him, his eyes focused on navigating a path through the tangled roots and he finds his destination relatively quickly, halting at a great juniper tree, branches extending out like hands reaching for an embrace.

He dismounts and Soonyoung follows closely afterwards. And then they bend down, and for a bizarre moment, Joshua is tempted to tell them that they won’t find any mushrooms _there_. It takes him several moments to figure out what they’re doing — it’s been so long, after all, since he’s done it himself.

The thing about magic is that it leaves traces. There’s distinct signs in the environment around that trap the remnants of sorcery, locking it in like a memory. Subtle, certainly, but there is training about this exact phenomena, being able to uncover what lies beneath the surface and who the caster is. Magic may often be called an untraceable art by the ignorant but that’s just because what they expect is fire and brimstone and thunder. Magic can be gentler than that, far more insidious — because magic can be like a poison, slow-growing but ultimately all-consuming.

Joshua knows this because in the years he’s lived with Seungkwan, he’s watched as the plants around him have started to wilt.

“The dirt here is acidic. I can’t believe anything can grow in this soil,” Soonyoung mutters, sweeping his fingers across the top layer of dirt, face contorting in disgust. Jeonghan leans over his shoulders, grabbing Soonyoung’s fingers.

“Interesting,” Jeonghan remarks, and then lets go and stands up.

“How so?”

“Soil’s been leached. Drained of any nutrition that could have once existed in it. Certainly is a good sign for us. Not so much for our shady friend here,” Jeonghan said, gesturing to the juniper. “If this keeps up, the tree will die. It would be slow, but before long, the branches will be stripped bare and rot will set in.”

“How tragic that would be,” Soonyoung says dully, “I was so fond. I had already had my eye on its wood for my funeral pyre.”

Jeonghan snorts, and Joshua can’t see his face, but he also _knows_ that he’s rolling his eyes.

Rather than being found crouching on the ground, collecting mushrooms like some cave goblin, Joshua rises to his feet and clears his throat. He finds two pairs of eyes fixed on him. “Apologies for interrupting, I was just busy in the area,” he says.

Soonyoung suppresses a yawn and starts reciting the speech. “I represent the Order of Witch Hunters and by the order of our Inquisitor, we are here investigating a rogue mage. If you have any information on this, you are bound by the decree—”

“Soonyoung,” Jeonghan interjects, his gaze still lingering on Joshua. “We know him.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung says. He surveys up and down, squinting like he’s trying to recall the moment. “Right, he does look a little familiar. Isn’t this your friend from the farms that you spoke about?”

Joshua attempts to hide his confusion, having never lived on a farm in his life, but Jeonghan nods. “Yes, he’s the one. Soonyoung, could you continue investigating the area? I’ll catch up with you later.”

Soonyoung stares. “You know we’re here _working_ , right?”

Jeonghan isn’t the kind of person to neglect his duty, not for anything or anyone. That’s the Jeonghan that Joshua remembers, anyway.

“I’ll be barely ten minutes,” Jeonghan says, and there’s authority in his voice now.

“ _Fine_ ,” Soonyoung says. “Fine.” He stands up, and no emotion is hidden in his face. While Joshua had assumed Jeonghan had meant for him to continue looking around the area, he promptly mounts his horse and rides off, muttering under his breath, leaving nothing but splashes behind him.

Jeonghan wears the coat today, the one made of thick fleece that appears every bit as normal as any purchased from a vendor — if it wasn’t for the insignia on the silver buttons on his cuffs. He wipes his hands and looks up, and Joshua curses the hopeful glimmer in his eyes. “Joshua,” he says, enunciating his name like it’s his favourite sound.

“I can’t seem to stop running into you, can I?” Joshua says, feeling very much out of place. “Haven’t seen you in six years and now twice in a week.”

“I’d call it fate if I believed in such fickle things,” Jeonghan replies, a smile spreading across his face. “How have you been? You look well.”

Joshua gestures to the basket in his hand. “Collecting mushrooms. Makes for a good stew.” 

The smile fades. “Ah. Is that all?”

“Nothing much more to do,” Joshua shrugs. “How’s investigating going?”

“Slow,” Jeonghan states. He sighs as he runs his hand over the bark of the juniper tree, with all the gentleness of parting a curtain. “I hate this. Surrounded by muck and grime. I keep dreaming about a hot bath with scented oils.”

“Patchouli,” Joshua chances. “That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

“You remember.”

Jeonghan opens his mouth. “How long have you been here-” he begins in the exact moment that Joshua blurts out the only thought he has in his mind:

“I like your hair like this.”

Jeonghan blinks. He unconsciously raises a hand, running through the waves of blonde and Joshua is unable to do anything but stare in absolute rapture. His hair looks like it might be the silk of the gods.

“It’s looked better,” Jeonghan says. “And I mean that entirely without vanity. I haven’t washed it in a _while_ but… thank you. I’ve grown it out for, hmm, four years now? This is probably the longest it’s ever been.” He twirls a strand between his fingers. “I might cut it soon.”

“Don’t.” And then realizes how forward that sounds, and mentally reins himself in. “I mean, if you want to, you should. But it looks beautiful at this length.”

Jeonghan’s face is vivid with longing, but for what, Joshua would dare not assume. “Thank you. I’ve always wanted to, you know, but the Academy never let me. I’m quite pleased to be able to now.”

Jeonghan leans forward and tugs on the strands of Joshua’s fringe. “And yet, here you are, as raven-haired as ever. Haven’t you ever wanted a change?”

“Leave my hair alone, you’re worse than my own mother,” Joshua says, batting Jeonghan’s hand away.

Joshua’s in the uncomfortable position of never wanting this conversation to end. There’s something to be said just to be able to _talk_ to Jeonghan for the first time in so long. There’s a thousand different topics they have to catch up on, and such limited time and such fraught circumstances to catch up on them.

“It’s just so untidy as well, haven’t you ever heard of a pair of scissors?” Jeonghan continues, reaching over, tilting Joshua’s head to the side and exposing the seared patch of hair there. “And this over here, what happened, did you trip and fall on a candle?”  

 It’s grown back in nicely, new strands overcoming where the others were charred off, but no, not by a candle. The incident is burned both into Joshua’s mind and the skin of his scalp.

Accidents with Seungkwan were fairly commonplace in their house, and truthfully, Joshua was normally prepared to duck and dodge at any moment, and had he not reacted, the blast from the flame might have taken out an eye. But he _did_ , and all that remained was a blow to the head, hardly anything to worry about, he was fine after lying down for an hour. The embers in his hair faded fairly quickly, and the bald spot barely showed — Wonwoo was the only one who laughed.

And Seungkwan never meant to hurt him.

Joshua overcome with his own self-consciousness, pats down the side of his hair, attempting to hide it. “Something like that.”

There’s a frown that settles on Jeonghan’s face. “How did that happen, it looks like it was burnt—”

“It’s fine,” Joshua says decisively, and Jeonghan takes a step back, surprised at the firmness in Joshua’s tone.

That’s just the problem, isn’t it? Joshua has to be so meticulously careful about every piece of information he shares with Jeonghan, in fear that any careless detail could doom Seungkwan. “Shouldn’t you be going back with Soonyoung now? He must be waiting.”

Jeonghan gazes behind him, as if examining the swamp, seeing if Soonyoung was hiding among the trees. “He’ll survive without me, I’m certain. It’s just routine investigation.”

Joshua purses his lips. “Well, he didn’t seem very happy about doing it on his own.”

“Soonyoung thinks happiness is a pastime best left to the young and stupid. I wouldn’t take his opinion too seriously.”

He can’t help but wish he’d make this easier for both of them. Rather than make excuses, that Jeonghan would just leave, because what’s currently happening, _this_ is dousing Joshua in cursed fire.

“Still. You have a job to do,” Joshua says, and his eyes drift to the rings that settle on Jeonghan’s middle finger. Three bands. The first to represent loyalty, the third to represent obedience and in the center, the faceted platinum signet, with the Order’s crest emblazoned on it, fused together on the day of their graduation.

Jeonghan follows Joshua’s line of sight and twists the ring around, fiddling with it. Joshua used to do that all the time, a nervous tick of sorts. When he stopped wearing it, it took months to kick himself off the habit, hands constantly searching for a phantom remnant. 

“It was nice to see you again,” Jeonghan says, far too honestly. “I’d like to do it again soon.” Jeonghan clicks his tongue and his horse trots towards him. He has his hands on her neck, but pauses. “Joshua?”

“Yes?”

Jeonghan decides on his words before speaking, very clearly enunciating it in his mind before talking out loud. “Soonyoung has grown frustrated with the Mire… and with me. In the hopes of calming him down, I thought I’d take him hunting in the area.”

Joshua considers. The swamp itself was entirely unsuited to hunting, unless one acquired a taste for toads. But near where reeds give way to grass, one might be able to manifest a meal. Still, it’s an odd request of Joshua, and he disguises his confusion. “There’s a few places I could recommend. About two hours ride away is a wooded area. I haven’t gone too often, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find a few deer. Unless you wanted bigger game…”

“No, deer is perfect,” Jeonghan says quickly. “But I had actually wanted to ask you if you’d accompany us.”

“Accompany?” Joshua repeats the word like it’s the first time he’s ever heard of it.

“As a guide, you know? If you wanted to. It might be nice. Spending some time away. Just the two of us.” There’s the soft beginning of a smile on his face that disappears by the time it’s realized. “And Soonyoung, of course, but he’ll be busy hunting.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Joshua says with more honesty than he thought he had possible.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan says, and it’s in that tone of voice that already starts to break down his resolve. He takes a step closer. “I just want to talk. It’s been years. I want to know what I’ve missed. Even if it’s just for a moment, I want to be in your life again.”

Jeonghan’s heritage betrays him. He’s always had what he _wanted_ , and Joshua was an awful enabler when it came down to it, and he couldn’t shake off that old resolve he had, that whatever Jeonghan wanted, Jeonghan should have.

“It would only be a day or two,” Jeonghan says, and now he’s talking very quickly. His eyes are as shiny as the buttons on his cufflinks. “It’s just a stress reliever of sorts. I think the distance’s been getting to him. After all, we’ve been on the road for weeks.”

Weeks. That’s right. That’s how far it takes to travel from the Citadel down to the grotty Black Mire. At least four, probably more, Joshua could be certain that the hunters were expected to make an appearance at the Forts they pass along the way, if just as a sign of respect to the reigning Inquisitor there. Jeonghan has been travelling for months.

Joshua still remembers when he was expected to bow before the presiding Inquisitor at the Westwind Fort, his first assignment. Still remembers the way Inquisitor Jihoon had surveyed him up and down, and regarded him with a nod, mentioning something about how he should meet the Magistrate someday. It's funny how the pride of that moment was embedded along with the memory.

It comes to mind, closely associated with the burden of travelling for that long, and yet again, Joshua finds himself overwhelmed by the thought that Jeonghan made this long trip. Joshua did the same course over several months, accompanied for most of it by the Magistrate himself, and all the luxury to be associated with such a high-ranking member of the Order — Jeonghan accomplished it in so much quicker.

“It sounds like it would be good for you as well,” Joshua answers.

“It would be better if you were with us.” And then he twists his ring again, looking at Joshua with poorly-disguised hope. “Would you please come with? Just for this. Just before we say goodbye again.”

Joshua has always been so weak.

 

 

“Mushrooms!” Seungkwan squeals with glee. He runs off the couch he’s burrowed in and grabs the basket from Joshua’s hands, eagerly digging his fingers in.

“I hope you washed your hands before doing that,” Joshua remarks, but smiles.

“This is absolutely perfect. Thank you so much, you don’t know how much I’ve been craving something to eat that isn’t fruit.” Seungkwan points to the pile of apple cores in the side of the attic.

He’s never lived here this long before, and it shows. The floor has collected a thick layer of scattered robes, and dried wax runs down all the cabinets. It wouldn’t cost Seungkwan anything to clean up a little, but he wouldn’t be Seungkwan if he did.

“I’ll definitely make some risotto for you when I get back,” Joshua says carefully, wiping off the table with his sleeve. He scoops up ashes and tosses them in the trash, but doesn’t dare open the window, now permanently closed. 

“When you get _back_?” Seungkwan replies, his wide eyes blinking in confusion. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Mmm,” Joshua answers. “Just for a day or two. Hunting trip.”

“Since when do you hunt? Wonwoo told me the last time he took you, you kept flinching whenever he would even raise his bow. You almost speared Seungcheol when he tried to offer you some water.”

“That’s because he came out of the bushes. I thought it was a boar!” The injuries were minimal. Seungcheol, who also knew Seungkwan for a substantial amount of time, learnt the value of dodging at the appropriate time. “And you don’t have to be good at hunting to go.”

“I’m inclined to agree but I’m sure it would help,” Seungkwan says. “But what’s brought this on? I wouldn’t think you’d decide now of all times to take a vacation when there’s hunters in the area, but I suppose we all need some time to ourselves.” He sighs heavily, pausing to stare out the window. “Just tie me up and leave me at the foot of their horses I guess. I hope death will be merciful.”

“It’s not a vacation, not at all,” Joshua is quick to defend. “And you’ll be fine, I promise, they won’t be here, they couldn’t hurt you and I thought it would be a break for you. You’d be able to go outside for once. And I won’t go if you don’t want me to—”

Seungkwan gets up and ruffles Joshua’s hair when he notices the look of concern on his face. “I’m teasing. You know I wouldn’t begrudge you if you ever decide to get a tan by the beach for a few days, I think it would do your complexion wonders.” 

Joshua puts a pause on his guilt. “My complexion is perfectly fine.”

“It’s good that you believe that. Self-confidence is very important,” Seungkwan pinches his cheek. “But, Joshua, I am curious as to the timing. After all, you were the one who bolted me up here.”

Joshua shakes free from Seungkwan’s grip. “It’ll be fine, you’ll be safe. I’m actually, well, it’s…” he falls short. “Jeonghan asked me to go with.”

He seems unaffected. It was not the reaction Joshua had expected when he played this conversation out in his mind. “Oh?”

“The hunter,” Joshua says, flushing at the words. “I ran into him earlier and he’s been questioning me, wanting to know why I’m here. He’s confused.”

“I would imagine so. You’re not the person you were when you left,” Seungkwan says, and it shouldn’t be so easy for him to say something so blunt. “Do you want to go with him?”

The logical answer presents itself. “I think it would be beneficial. I don’t know how much longer I can avoid him, and it might throw off any suspicions he has,” Joshua says. “A brief period of relaxation for you would only be good.”

Seungkwan hums. He starts to pack out the mushrooms, smiling in delight when he notices the care at which Joshua placed bushels of herbs underneath. “Oh, a sprig of eyebright? Thank you! Did you find anymore?” Without waiting for an answer, he upends the basket on his work desk, and several mushrooms roll out. Joshua ducks to catch them before it reaches the floor, and upon rising, hits his head on the ceiling with a thump.

“Seungkwan,” Joshua begins, but is ignored as Seungkwan rifles among the herbs collected along the way, clapping his hands.

“Wonderful, you’ve truly read my mind, Joshua. I needed this. I didn’t know I needed it, but now I’m absolutely sure that I did.” He throws a spring into the cauldron, and grazes his fingers over the sides. There’s a spark, and it ignites in blue flame.

Discomfort settled in the pit of Joshua’s stomach whenever Seungkwan would begin one of his _concoctions_ in the attic, filled with visions of exploding pots, shattered windows and the smell of smoke. It had taken Seungkwan many pain-staking lectures to drill into Joshua’s head that it was fine, his flame was directly tied to his focus, so if he was ever _not_ concentrating, it would just disappear. His house wasn’t going to burn down. Joshua had seen the practical application of this, after a time when Wonwoo brought a prototype toy he had crafted and Seungkwan became so entranced, the entire flame dissipated. This knowledge didn’t make him feel any calmer though.

“Seungkwan,” Joshua says. “What about the hunting trip?”

He looks up, and his brow is furrowed. “Are you waiting for my permission?”

When it’s said like that, it sounds ridiculous. Joshua stammers out, “Not quite, but—”

The flame extinguishes, replaced by the warmth in Seungkwan’s eyes. Resting his hand on Joshua’s shoulder, he beams at him. “Joshua, you never need permission from me to do something. You know that.”

The reminder is certainly nice.

“If my safety is of concern to you, I don’t think going would put me in anymore danger than I already am. I think the only thing that matters is your own choice,” Seungkwan gazes at him, tilting his head to the side. “And if I had to guess, I think you do want to go. It’s not a flaw to miss the company of someone who meant a considerable amount to you.”

The rush of affection that Joshua feels for Seungkwan is one he’s familiar with, but it doesn’t change just how powerful it is, how it spreads from his chest through his whole body. “I’ll bring you home some game.”

“You should. And then the mushroom risotto. Don’t forget, because I certainly won’t.”

 

 

“I don’t have a horse,” is the first thing Joshua says. Jeonghan, occupied with tying the saddle on his own mare, turns around, and grins widely. He looks like he could eat the sun.

“You came,” Jeonghan says, and there’s a lot that’s unsaid in those two simple words.

“I said I would.”

“You’ll forgive me if I had my doubts, but you don’t have a reputation of showing up lately,” Jeonghan replies, eyes twinkling. He’s dressed in his riding gear, black as the usual witch hunter colours demand, and the jacket does little to hide the shape of his body. Joshua doesn’t mean to stare, but there’s something endlessly fascinating about the way the silver of the Order’s medallion matches the shiny buttons on his riding jacket.

“I don’t have much of any equipment, really,” Joshua says, attempting to talk as a means to stop thinking. “I haven’t been hunting in a long time.”

“It’s no problem,” Jeonghan says, brushing the mane of his mare. “We’ve borrowed a spare horse for the occasion. I can’t guarantee that it’ll be a particularly fast or well-behaved one, but it’ll get you there faster than if you’d attempted to walk.”

Having a horse in the mire was not a common occurrence, and certainly not a very good investment. “Where did you get a spare horse from?”

Jeonghan shrugs. “Requisitioned it?” he says, like it’s so obvious. “We’ll return it afterwards, if that’s what you’re concerned. And I highly doubt the owner was planning on using it.”

It’s just so familiar. When Joshua was stationed in Fort Westwind as a recent graduate, he was surrounded by those far more experienced than him. The fresh meat was always delegated to the menial labour, and it was Joshua who ended up doing the requisitions for a good month or two. It was always a highly uncomfortable job, knocking on the doors of people who could barely afford their own bread, and informing them that they’re being forced to give up something to an organization they may not have even supported — even wanted.

But Joshua doesn’t want to make a fuss, not now, and not when Jeonghan stands in front of him with his bags packed and his spears polished. He’s quite aware he’s going to hurt Jeonghan at some point over this trip, when the inevitable conversation occurs, and he’d rather not do it now, not when he beams so brightly.

“As for weapons,” Jeonghan says, “I don’t particularly know what you fancied. I didn’t really think you’d be playing an active role in the hunt, and if I recall correctly, you’re not too fond of a manual bow.”

Joshua snorts. “That would be accurate.”

“Yes, unlike your aim.” Jeonghan shoves a waterskin into his satchel. “But I’ve got a spare sword packed in if the need arises. If you’d prefer a spear, you’ll have to ask Soonyoung yourself, and that I would strongly discourage.” He sweeps his hair back, tightening his ponytail. “Do you need anything or can we set out?”

“Where is Soonyoung?” Joshua asks, craning his neck around. It’s a little after daybreak, and he bid farewell to Seungkwan, finding it slightly ironic that he’d be safer now than since the witch hunters arrived.

He gestured ahead. “Somewhere up ahead. I couldn’t stop him from leaving. He told me you weren’t going to show up. I can understand why he thought so, but I was hopeful you’d show up. And you did,” Jeonghan finishes with a distinct look at Joshua, like he couldn’t enjoy the sight of him enough. “We should get going, before he just rides all the way home, I wouldn’t put it past him.” 

Joshua snorts. The horse that waits for him is a chestnut brown, and puts up little fuss when Joshua mounts, even if he’s unsteady. It’s been so long since he’s needed to ride anywhere, and his legs begin to ache after mere moments. He starts to think about all the things he should have packed, starts to worry about Seungkwan, thinks that he should have told Wonwoo where he was going but didn’t want to involve anyone any further in the mess he’s making of himself.

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Jeonghan says, and every other thought in his mind is wiped away. “I didn’t think you would.”

“I didn’t think so either,” Joshua says, tugging on the reins. “But I guess I changed my mind.”

“I really can’t explain how glad I am to see you again, truthfully. I always hoped that there would be a good reason why you seemed to fall off the face of the world but sometimes…” Jeonghan trails off, something changing in his voice, growing softer. “Sometimes I wondered if you were even still alive.”

Guilt is as common as breathing air to Joshua. He smiles. “It’s good to see you as well.”

“And were you not concerned for my own wellbeing?” Jeonghan says, in a tone of mock outrage that’s just a little too high to be entirely a joke.

“Of course I was,” and Joshua is surprised by his own sincerity. “But I also knew you’d continue to thrive as you always have. I never needed to worry.  I was sure of that.”

Jeonghan pauses. Digests the words. Seems like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it.

“My assumptions proved correct,” Joshua continues. There’s a strange tightness in his throat, his breath constricting. “You seem to be doing quite well for yourself.”

“You could say that,” Jeonghan says, suddenly very interested in the road ahead. His hair sways with the canter of his horse. “I’ve given the Order my loyalty and the Order’s given me my purpose. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

It didn’t often end up like that, though. Joshua had been loyal to the Order, dedicated to a fault, and he still feels the frost in his bones during bad nights. He couldn’t really begrudge Jeonghan for having a better experience, though, Joshua knew his own quandary with the Order was one that no one else could intervene.

“But it’s been a while, I’m certain you’ve found a place for yourself in the Mire as well. How long have you been here?” Jeonghan asks, very innocuously, testing the waters.

The weight of a lie is one that Joshua decides not to bear. “Four years. Something like that. Time passes more slowly here.”

“ _Four years_?” Jeonghan repeats, and hearing his own tone, one of absolute disbelief and confusion, restrains himself. “That’s a long time.”

“It hasn’t really felt that long,” Joshua says. “The days sort of blur together.”

“You’ve been in the same place for four years,” Jeonghan says in muted amazement, “and I can’t recall the last time I’ve slept in the same bed for more than a few weeks. They shift me around so much. I’ve been back and forth across half the continent with periodic trips to the Citadel.”

“I hope you’ve gotten better at packing,” Joshua remarks. “You were always awful at it.”

“For your information, I _have_. I’ve also had to give up many luxuries. This journey in particular has been horrible for my skin. Look at this, it’s awful,” Jeonghan says, pointing at his cheek, fair and unblemished. Joshua doesn’t think that he’s staring, until he realizes that the exact amount of time he’s been looking into Jeonghan’s eyes, Jeonghan has been looking into his.

“Don’t be dramatic, you look fine,” Joshua says, focusing back on the path. His horse snorts at a gnat flying near them, and Joshua waves it away.

“I’m not complaining though,” Jeonghan adds as an afterthought. “I’ve seen the most amazing places.”

“The ocean,” Joshua says wistfully.

“Like the ocean,” Jeonghan agrees. He digs into the topic with both teeth, knows the salt-tinted fascination that exists inside Joshua’s soul. “I’ll tell you about it sometime, Joshua, it’s unlike anything we ever dreamed about.” His voice takes on a dreamy quality. “The places I’ve been Joshua… I might not always sleep on a bed, and the bruises from riding aren’t any fun, but oh. It’s worth it.” A strand spills loose from his ponytail. He doesn’t notice. “That’s never really been you, though. You like growing your roots.”

“I do,” Joshua says. “And I’m happy here. I like the life that I’ve built.”

He’d be satisfied with whatever he managed to construct out of his own remnants. The strange sort of family he’s built up here, with Seungkwan, with Wonwoo, with Seungcheol, is a grace he never expected to have.

“They’ve kept your room empty at the Citadel,” Jeonghan informs him.

Joshua pauses. “Why? It’s been years.”

“At my request.”

His last trip to the Citadel did not coincide with a time that Jeonghan was there. He hadn’t realized what little friends he’d made until all of them were scattered across the world, and he was alone in his chambers, too high in rank for the recruits to dare talk to him, and yet still unworthy of being addressed by the Inquisitors. It was for the best that he wasn’t there for very long either. Not even two weeks later, the Magistrate came to talk to him, requesting his presence on a trip down to the Tundra. He had to preside over a trial— a rather secret one— and needed a bodyguard, one that had come highly commended by his dear friend Jihoon. Joshua had accepted, honoured beyond words.

 He had been packing when he received word that Inquisitor Kyungri was returning, and Jeonghan with her, and for a moment it seemed like their reunion was in sight. But there was just no time. They had to travel across half the world — Joshua had no authority to delay their departure. It had been hard then, forcing himself to go when he knew, just a few more days, a week at most, and it could have been them together again for the first time in years — and Joshua had been aching to see him again.

It was strange now to wonder how different things would have been if Joshua could have just stayed a little longer, waited a few days more before leaving, just enough to catch a glimpse, to talk to the person he loved the most in the world. All it would have taken  was one look, to gaze into his eyes and be reminded of the good of the Order, something that would make it worth his loyalty. Surely an organization that gifted the world with someone like Jeonghan was a just one. But Joshua has to stop his thoughts there, knowing if he started to consider the possibilities, he’d drown in his own regrets.

“Why?” Joshua asks. “Why keep it?” What little possessions he had in those rooms were certainly nothing of value. Spare uniforms, pressed flowers, dented weapons, an old music box he had since childhood that was hardly even functional.

“I kept waiting for you.”

It’s too late to turn back.

They’re further from the swamp now, the reeds giving way to grass, a path clearly forming from the undergrowth, and by Joshua’s own estimation, they must have been riding for an hour now. Their pace is steady, they’ve got nowhere where they need to be, and Joshua has a suspicion Jeonghan deliberately slows down his own horse. Despite this, Joshua’s muscles ache. He hasn’t ridden this much in years, and while the theory remains embedded in his mind, the residual body pain has not. 

 

 

Joshua possess the necessary practical skills to assemble a tent, and it might be the only time Soonyoung regards him with anything other than distaste. After determining that he was capable, Soonyoung nodded, pulling out his spears, and rode off into the distance with not a word in farewell. Jeonghan didn’t appear to mind. He was far too preoccupied with his horse.

He was brushing the mare now, and it was impossible to ignore the look of absolute devotion in his eyes as he runs the bristles up and down its mane. His touch is gentle, and Joshua doesn’t mean to intrude, he wanted to ask him something, but the question is all but forgotten now. Joshua moves a step closer and makes no effort to disguise his footsteps, but he’s far too distracted, and Joshua can now make out the cooing sounds Jeonghan is making.

“You’ve been so good today, darling. Are you tired? You don’t look tired, of course you aren’t, you’re just so strong, you’re my best girl,” Jeonghan whispers into her mane. His other hand runs up and down the side of her neck. The horse whinnies and Jeonghan lets out a laugh like bells.

“Am I interrupting?” Joshua says, torn between wanting to fluster Jeonghan relentlessly but also wanting to observe him gush over a creature he clearly cares deeply for.

“It’s you,” Jeonghan says, and reddens ever so slightly. He lowers the brush. “How much did you hear?”

“Some interesting facts about your ‘best girl’.”

“Well. Yes. I’m not embarrassed about how much I adore Levi. She’s a thousand times better company than most people,” Jeonghan says, and then considers, absent-mindedly stroking her mane. “I mean you’re okay, I guess, but you also aren’t Levi.”

“Levi?” Joshua repeats. “Uncommon name for a horse. Especially a mare.”

“It’s short for Leviathan,” Jeonghan says, an obvious hint of pride. “She’s a pedigree, the youngest in a line of war horses that the Order has used for years. She was bred to be a beast.” And then he nuzzles his face into her mane. “But you’re no beast, are you? You’re my _best girl_.”

He can see it now, looking carefully. Levi’s entire body is designed for speed with muscular legs and thick hooves. Joshua had a horse once, a stallion who’s name he can barely remember and who he doesn’t think about often, and that about sums up his feelings about the animal. He hasn’t ever seen Jeonghan attached to a creature like this, not when he struggles to make friends with humans.

“A war horse,” Joshua repeats.

“She was a gift,” Jeonghan says after a moment of consideration.

“Who would give you a thoroughbred horse as a _gift_?”

The path that Jeonghan’s hand takes as he strokes up and down Levi’s chest halts. “My father. He gifted her to me about three years ago, when I returned from my station at Whitewater.” When Joshua doesn’t reply, he adds: “I did a very good job at Whitewater.”

“A reward from the High Inquisitor is very impressive,” Joshua says quietly, and it _is_ impressive. Jeonghan’s father has never showed any favouritism towards him — rather, he treated his son with absolute indifference, barely ever acknowledging him in public, certainly not lavishing him in rewards. Joshua can still remember Jeonghan’s own timid voice, the one that hadn’t even broken yet, questioning in the dormitories if perhaps his father just didn’t _like_ him.

The only potential explanation for why he’s been so actively ignored all his life.

And for him to bestow such a generous gift — whatever Jeonghan did at Whitewater must have been a very, _very_ good job. 

“She’s beautiful,” Joshua comments and the tension in Jeonghan’s shoulders dissipates.

“She is, isn’t she? I know in the back of my mind that had I decided to take a boat, I could have come here a lot faster, but I wouldn’t have had Levi, and I didn’t think I was prepared to leave her behind for so long. She doesn’t particularly like strangers, you see.” Joshua reaches up a hand to stroke her, and Jeonghan quickly follows up with: “She also bites.”

This time it seems Levi doesn’t, and has no qualms with Joshua rubbing the side of her body.

“Hello Levi,” Joshua says, keeping his voice at a musical tone. “It’s nice to meet you.” She whinnies approvingly. “Jeonghan was right, you’re a very pretty girl.”

“Oh. This isn’t what I expected,” Jeonghan says, delight evident in his tone. “She’s not usually so receptive.”

Levi tilts her head, and Joshua grins. “She’s not as grumpy as you’re claiming she is.” Joshua runs his hand over her neck, gazes into her eyes. “Silly Jeonghan, he should know you better, you pretty girl!”

Jeonghan reaches into his supplies and pulls out a red apple, shiny and big. “Want to feed her?”

“Absolutely,” Joshua says, holding out the fruit, flinching as Levi chomps down. “Big appetite.”

“Only the best for the best girl.” Jeonghan gazes upon the two of them with a smile. “I really didn’t think you’d get along so well.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve been with horses, truthfully, I was a little afraid that she’d just trample me for daring to look at her.” Levi chews with such vigour that the juice of the apple squirts out and Joshua wrinkles his eyes shut.

Jeonghan packs away the brush. “You used to have a horse, didn’t you? I don’t think I met him, but… you had just left a few weeks ago by boat, but I remember seeing a stallion in the stables that they said belonged to you. He was big, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t remember his name,” Joshua says. It was something with an ‘M’.

“What happened to him?”

Such a direct question cannot be ignored. Joshua waits until Levi takes another bite before answering. The memory is spiked as it goes through his mind. “I had to sell him. I needed safe passage and I had nothing else besides that horse to my name.” Joshua pauses, guilt clogging his throat. “It was not something I chose to do lightly.”

Seungkwan hadn’t liked that idea at all. He’d said that it would be fine, they could just make camp and wait for someone else to come by, but Joshua did not share that same optimism. He was still so ill, could make out the ice crystals flaking under his nails. He had no money, had already traded away his accessory weapons for food and medicine earlier. When the trading caravan had come around and the owner demanded payment in exchange for transport, the only thing Joshua had left to his name was his horse.

He still had his rings, of course, but he could never part with that.

“Joshua, that’s…” Jeonghan breaks off, his face fixed in absolute horror. Jeonghan’s hands are raised as if he was about to clasp them over Joshua’s — but he hesitates, and they hang in the air, awkward. He swallows, fastening his arms back to his sides. “That’s absolutely awful. What about your commander? Or another hunter? Surely there was someone who could have helped.”

Joshua’s chest pulls tight. “No one. There was no one.” Seungkwan had told him not to, but the effects of starvation had already been so clear, his rosy cheeks dullened.

“Where were you?” Jeonghan asks, and when no response returns, he exhales. Joshua can’t. Not now. “I hope one day you’d trust me enough to tell me.”

It’s a hope they share. Joshua concentrates on the path of Levi’s fur that he strokes, distracting himself with the patterns he makes, waiting for Jeonghan to release him from the thread of conversation that wraps around his neck like a noose.  

“She hates Soonyoung,” Jeonghan informs him. “Once he had to tie her up to a tree and she bit his hand so hard he started to bleed. She’s just, quite simply, the _greatest_.”

 

Jeonghan’s beauty, well-documented, has never deterred from how excellent he is, how dedicated he is, how hard-working he is and it does Joshua no good to dwell on these observations — but now that’s he started, he can’t stop himself. It’s just been so long since he’s seen what he looks like in action, he feels like he has to allow himself a brief moment of indulgence.

Jeonghan’s posture is as restrained as the string in the teeth of his crossbow. There’s something haunting about the complete lack of hesitation in his frame. He’s done this a thousand times and will continue to do so. His mastery is clearly demonstrated. He clicks the trigger and the bolt shoots out, and Joshua can see it meets its target but still gasps when the fruit falls from the tree, cracking against the ground, sweet juice glistening in the morning sunlight.

“Adequate,” Jeonghan deems, running his finger over the stock. It glistens. This is a crossbow that is well-maintained — and well-used. “I don’t have very many bolts with me, so I’m trying to make them count.”

Joshua figures he should make some sort of comment, a word of affirmation but is absolutely entranced at the way his hair flows over his shoulder as he raises his arm again, aiming at the sky. It’s like a cloud of gold. Joshua forces his attention upwards at the formation of geese that appear overhead, a perfect ‘V’ and Jeonghan’s gaze is calculated.

“Bet I can’t get two in a row?” Jeonghan says, a teasing tone in his voice.

“I don’t think I’d ever bet against you,” Joshua says. It comes out more intimate than his initial intention, sounds like it means something more than it should. Joshua hesitates, gazing at Jeonghan’s expression. The only sign he even heard him is the slight twitch of his lips. It’s logical to avoid wagering against Jeonghan, he’s excellent, he’s always been so. And yet, Joshua also knows that Jeonghan could have been a mess of clumsy limbs and poor coordination, stumbling through life, and Joshua still would believe in him, would still tell him he could shoot two birds in a row, no, that he could shoot three.

The geese fly evenly forward, absolutely unaware of the hunter below them, armed and ready. Jeonghan aims, eyes fixed ahead. He’s always been a different person with a weapon in his grip, like the weight of the metal in his hands sinks down on his mind until he becomes singularly-focused. He’s a swordsman when it comes down to it — but it’s clear he’s developed a certain appreciation for the skill of archery.

He fires — the unfamiliar trees may be surprised, but Joshua is not. The bird falls to the ground, and the sound of squawks erupt from above. The geese scatter, flying haphazardly. Jeonghan wastes no time with this second shot, merely reloads and shoots. His sharp jaw flexes at the recoil of the crossbow and there’s a smirk hidden there, enticing. The scatter of feathers that rains down is the answer that _yes_ , he could hit two in a row.

His hair cascades down his back and for a moment, Joshua allows himself the pleasure of imagining what it would be like to run his fingers through it. He’s forced out of his delirium by Jeonghan turning, holding out the crossbow.

“There’s not many birds left in the area, but do you want to try?”

He’s unable to resist staring at it. His hands move of their own volition, anxious to touch the fusion of varnished wood and gleaming iron. The arrow aligned in it has his name written on it, is begging to be fired. It’s far nicer than any crossbow he’s seen before. Care was taken when this was made. He was never particularly good with manual bows, but he trained on crossbows — he excelled on crossbows. “Where did you buy it?”

“It was a gift,” Jeonghan says, and he beams. “I served under the reigning Inquisitor Hakyeon at the Northern Shelf. He was rather pleased with my service and he gave it to me after the original owner didn’t come back from a parole. Pity about the hunter, but as a unit, we got our vengeance.” He taps the arrow, and grins to himself. “And individually, I got my crossbow.”

Joshua pulls his fingers away as if the wood had begun to burn beneath him. “That’s a nice gift.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to try?” he asks. “It’s really easy to use. It was probably the pinnacle of technology when it was made. I could show you?”

“I don’t use weapons anymore,” Joshua answers, and then clamps his mouth shut at how silly it sounds. The use of the word ‘weapon’ is absurd for one, Joshua is fully aware that anything can be a weapon if used properly, because what is a weapon if not something that can be used to hurt somebody else?

He knows what he wanted to say, however, what he could not articulate: which is the reality that he does not want to hold a crossbow, because that reminds him too much of the person he used to be when he would hold crossbows, when he would do more than just _hold_ crossbows.

“You don’t have to use it as a _weapon_ ,” Jeonghan says, frowning. “You could pick a target at a tree if that’s your prerogative.”

“I’d just prefer not to,” Joshua says, and takes a step back. He’ll have to get used to that look of disappointment in Jeonghan’s face. It will soon become a permanent resident. 

“You were very good if my memory is accurate,” Jeonghan says carefully, laying the crossbow down next to his satchel. He reaches for his waterskin, and wipes the sweat away from his brow.

“That sounds about right.” Joshua wouldn’t lie. He possessed a degree of skill which was not to be disregarded.

“You could almost shoot as far as me.”

“Almost,” Joshua confirms.

“Don’t take that as a weakness on your part, though, after all, beating me? Who can?” Jeonghan says, and then he smiles, that wildly overconfident smile, the kind that used to drive Joshua crazy. Jeonghan always looked like he was ready to devour the world, and if anyone could, it would be him. 

What is Jeonghan if not a weapon, a radiant, intelligent and unquestionably lethal weapon? 

 

 

Underneath a starry sky, Joshua lets himself remember life under the towers.

The Citadel is punctuated by two towers, the tallest sentinels, equidiscent in how they watch over the central structure. Tower Dexter and Tower Sinister are perhaps as central to the image of witch hunters as the Citadel itself. Perhaps more — because while the actual Citadel is shrouded in secrecy, allowing only those with the necessary permission to enter, the Towers are not constrained. They loom overhead, able to be seen across the land, a passive reminder that witch hunters are there, that witch hunters are everywhere and it is up to the observer whether this brings them delight or dread.

It’s subjective, really, Joshua’s own opinion, forged by years of witnessing the majesty of those spires on a daily basis, but if he had a choice, he would have wanted to be the Inquisitor of one of those towers. There’s a certain level of prestige associated with dominion over Tower Dexter and Tower Sinister, the kind that comes with perhaps no other position, certainly not among the rank of Inquisitor. While every one of them is granted a room of residence at the Citadel, to have control over a tower means an entire _wing_. The most lush of accommodation in the most central of locations, and more than that, leadership of a squadron of hunters.

Those towers became a dream and dreams were a strange thing, that once set, rarely are removed.

Joshua confessed it to Jeonghan, some late night during the fourth year together, when they both should have been asleep but couldn’t find that relief, their muscles weeping from the brunt of sword practise.

“Imagine being the Inquisitor of one of the towers,” Joshua had said, mutely, not wanting anyone else to hear his fantasies of staring out a balcony and seeing only the sky. “A whole wing. That kind of power.”

Joshua had never realized what a good listener Jeonghan was until he nodded, enraptured by the future Joshua was weaving. His face, obscured in shadows, was vivid as the stars dancing on the spire.

“I never thought about it before,” Jeonghan had said. “Of course I want to be an Inquisitor, but I never considered where I’d want to rule.”

“Imagine it. Every morning you wake up to the sound of the doves cooing. Every evening you fall asleep to the sight of the two moon sky. These towers can be seen even out of the city, and they would be _ours_ , Jeonghan. Everyone would know our names.” 

“It could be incredible. That could be us,” Jeonghan breathed out and Joshua remembered how beautiful Jeonghan looked like when his eyes were wide with excitement, his lips in a wild grin. He almost said something then, something silly and foolish and drunk on the promise of a future, when Jeonghan leans closer, strands of golden hair tickling Joshua’s cheek. 

“I’ll have Sinister, you’ll have Dexter, and we’ll meet in the middle,” Jeonghan had said, and when Joshua fell asleep that night, it’s the first time he has a dream that would become regular, of a future with Jeonghan next to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almay has drawn the most incredible fanart of the black mire [here](https://twitter.com/lovefoolthatsme/status/1120808187874222080)! i hope you enjoyed and let me know if you did, comments fuel my poor mind! 💕


	3. Ignite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading 💗⚔️

Had Joshua lived the life he had planned to, he was certain he’d find quite the rival in Soonyoung. Everything about him was so indicative of the kind of hunter that he grew to despise. The Fort was littered with people like him, that wore their rings like they weren’t weighted with the souls they’ve dispatched, the kind that carry their authority around like a cloak billowing behind them, the kind that seems to enjoy the job a little too much.

Witch hunting is supposed to be a duty, not a sport.

According to Jeonghan’s commentary, Soonyoung was younger than them, graduated in the next cohort in a ceremony Joshua could not attend as he was already half a land away, stationed at the very Fort he’d grow to despise, far too busy dampening the flames of a diminished rebellion to worry about the Academy. Their paths have never intersected ever since, and he would never have met Soonyoung if not for now.

And it’s for the best. Joshua doesn’t really think he’d like Soonyoung — and it doesn’t seem like Jeonghan does either. They do not act like partners, no, they act like strangers handcuffed together on a forced voyage. Soonyoung currently is a noticeable distance ahead, trotting his horse at a reasonable pace which makes it fairly clear that while he has no urge to rush, he certainly has no urge to talk to either of them. It’s just so uncommon for this animosity. Joshua always got along with his fellow hunters — they were civil at the very least, but this seems to be a different matter. It’s particularly curious considering Jeonghan and Soonyoung have been on the road together a long time and it seems like it was a _choice_ on Soonyoung’s part to be here. There’s no reason for him to carry his tornado around with him. 

Joshua dwells on how to phrase the question in his mind for such a long period of time, that Jeonghan picks up on it.

“Yes? You look like you’ve drowning in your thoughts,” Jeonghan says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He doesn’t offer to disguise the words he speaks, and Joshua notices Soonyoung nudges his horse even further ahead.

“I was just wondering about…” Joshua trails off with a decisive nod at the head of silver steel hair disappearing between the trees in front of them.

“If it makes you feel any better, we’re _all_ curious about him,” Jeonghan says, lips curling up mischievously. “He keeps very much to himself when at the Citadel. Has a tendency to grovel. Would not be surprised if he started licking our Inquisitor’s boots clean.”

Joshua snorts. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Oh, there’s lots of theories going around,” Jeonghan enthuses, his face lighting up. “Some say he’s a wooden puppet that came to life and went horribly wrong. Others say that when he was training, he got a very large stick stuck inside of him and it’s still there to this day and that’s why he’s the way that he is. Others just summarize it and say he’s a perpetually flaccid dick.”

Joshua bites down on his lip to stop himself from laughing. “Is that the general consensus?”

There’s no hesitation when Jeonghan answers. “Absolutely.”

It’s a good thing Soonyoung continues to ride further ahead.

“He’s not entirely irredeemable, I suppose. He’s certainly skilled at what he does,” Jeonghan concedes. “You haven’t seen him in battle. He’s terrifying, one of the best I’ve ever seen. Yet he lacks the necessary mannerisms to ever be more than an accessory, a companion. You’ve seen the way he speaks to you.” Jeonghan sits straighter. “Even if you absolutely loathe the existence of someone, there’s a certain code of conduct to be followed.”

The complete lack of conversation between Joshua and Soonyoung was bordering on comical. Soonyoung resolved to blatantly and actively ignore Joshua, the exception being the interspersed dirty looks. Joshua is rather used to seeing such blatant hatred, and doesn’t consider himself too affected, but the source is surprising. Back then, the viritol was from the displaced refugees — certainly not a fellow hunter. 

“You used to be like that,” Joshua says. “I remember you would hate when we’d have to rehearse the code of ethics.”

Jeonghan pulls a face. “Hate it I did, but at least I learnt from it. Even I have to begrudgingly admit that those dreary hours in the hall served a point. You can’t just go to every town waving your banner proudly and then proceeding to step on the backs of the people you’re sworn to protect.”

Joshua blinks in concern. “Is that what he’s like?”

“It’s certainly what he would prefer. I’ve been on patrols with him before, known him for perhaps three years now, and all he’s gotten is more and more angry at the disrespect he feels is shown towards him.” Jeonghan considers for a moment. “The stick theory just sounds more and more fitting the more I think about it. Or perhaps, he joined the Order because he figured the easy way to get married was to find someone as reticent as he is. I have been told the uniform is quite attractive, maybe he was onto something with that colluded scheme.”

Joshua wonders if he misheard. “Oh?”

Jeonghan blinks. “I’m sure you can relate. The kind of attention you get as a hunter can be quite pleasurable, you know?”

It’s entirely rational that Jeonghan would have dabbled in romantic encounters, and indeed so had Joshua, but that didn’t change the fact that Joshua now felt mildly like he was about to erupt. Jeonghan was just so beautiful, it’s no surprise at all that he’s had people interested in him. Joshua refuses to name the emotion that claws at his mind, focusing instead on what rides on the stallion ahead of him.  

Joshua takes note of Soonyoung’s retreating figure. He’s heavier set than Jeonghan, more brute muscle, and Joshua struggles to imagine Soonyoung as a recruit in the Academy, apple-cheeked and youthful. He seems like he was born to be a hunter.

“And do you have a theory of your own as to why he’s like this?” Joshua asks, trying to dispel certain thoughts from his mind.

“It’s not as interesting as any of the others.”

“I’d like to hear it nonetheless. You’ve known him for years as you said.” Jeonghan always had an eerie reading on people, accurate to a worrying degree.

Jeonghan considers his words. “Too much ambition, too little patience. We all want to be Inquisitors, but we all aren't going to get there, and certainly not as soon as he wishes it.” He purses his lips.

Ah. Inquisitor. It’s a dream Joshua wore so well. The idea alone inspired him everyday, whether he was requisitioning money for wine from peasants or on the treacherous roads with the Magistrate. That it would all be worth it because one day, he would add two more bands to his set of rings, he’d have a tower of his own and every single person in this miserable world would address him as Inquisitor.

Jeonghan directs his horse to slow down, pulling on Levi’s reins. “I never wanted to be with him. No, that sounds harsher than intended. He’s not a bad hunter, not at all, and I certainly prefer having him here than being alone but…  I wanted Minhyuk, I wanted Yuta, I wanted _anyone_ , but very few were willing to accompany me.”

The names are familiar. “Was it too far?”

“If it was just distance that was the issue, I would have offered to carry them on my back the whole way,” Jeonghan says, somewhat bitterly. “No Inquisitor would even approve my investigation, and when one finally did, I had to beg every single person at the Citadel if they’d come with.” He notices Joshua’s shock. “They claimed I was going off baseless rumours, that there were a hundred better places to look for witches in hiding, and I’m certain there are, but I know there’s something going on with this Mire.”

Joshua keeps his breathing steady. There was a point to this after all, this hunting trip wasn’t a means of reunion. Any information he could coax out of Jeonghan could be used to help Seungkwan. “What have you heard?”

Levi whinnies like she’s attempting to join in the conversation, and Joshua suppresses a smile. “It’s difficult to get a direct answer out of anyone,” Jeonghan says. “The people I talk to are peasants and farmworkers, and they don’t really possess a lot of respect for witch hunters. I’ve had more luck overhearing conversations in bars than having Order-approved interviews.”

The mental image of Jeonghan attempting to be inconspicuous in a seedy bar under the cover of night might be one of the funniest things Joshua’s ever imagined.      

Jeonghan’s voice is softer now. “But the rumours say that if you’re dying when you come to the Mire, you leave like you’re reborn. It’s a place of miracles.”

 _‘Miracles’._ That sounds about right. Joshua is certain he used that exact word some four years earlier.

“Have you experienced that?” Jeonghan asks him, suddenly. “Living in the Mire, have you heard anything?”

“Can’t say I have,” Joshua shrugs. “Sounds very fantastical. Not like you at all.”

It’s distressing how easy it is for Joshua to lie.

“It does, I know,” and here Jeonghan breaks off in a sigh. “But I’ve been investigating these murmurs for a while, and while they are rare, they are consistent in their accounts. And wouldn’t you say that’s incredible? Across an entire continent, they all claim there’s something _magical_ about this place. I firmly believe there’s someone in this Mire that is a witch, and a witch of tremendous power.”

Joshua has mastered his mask of indifference. “And Soonyoung was the only person who believed you?”

Jeonghan’s face curls into a frown. “Regrettably so. If I’m to be honest, it’s hard not to bear any ill will to those who turned me down. I’ve given so much to them individually and as a unit, and yet none of them would support me, wouldn’t even _believe_ me.”

It must have hurt. Loyalty has always been so important to him, and to have the people he trusts most not even show the barest trace of faith must have _hurt_.

“I’ve been prepared for this journey for a year already, and just had to sit around waiting for someone to take pity on me.” Soonyoung turns back for a moment, perhaps just to check that they were still on the same path, and Jeonghan visibly stiffens.

“Still, I shouldn’t complain. I’m here, after all, even if a little late,” Jeonghan says. Joshua can almost see the weight of the phantom shackles around his hands. “And I got to see you again.” He says it as an afterthought, almost shyly. But that’s ridiculous. Jeonghan was never shy.

“Yes. Yes you did,” Joshua says. He wishes he didn’t feel grateful for the circumstances, and he _isn’t_ — but the opportunity to be able to talk to Jeonghan freely is one that Joshua treasures.

“Catch up,” Soonyoung calls. “I want to set up camp for the night.”

“Oh, you do?” Jeonghan’s voice is abnormally chipper. “That sounds like a lovely thing to want.”

There’s a distinct pause, and when Soonyoung speaks again, it sounds like he has to force every word from behind the cage of his teeth. “Do _you_ think we can set up camp?”  

“Of course I do, Soonyoung, we’ve been riding for hours. What a silly question.”

 

Joshua doesn’t enjoy finding himself in the position of sharing a meal with witch hunters around a campfire, but he can’t delude himself that this is a punishment. He must give credit to the lucidity of Jeonghan’s voice which weaves a picture of crashing waves against the shore. It’s a sound Joshua can’t fathom, can’t begin to imagine, but if he had to compare it, if he had to try, he wants to think that it sounds like it does when Seungkwan makes lights manifest out of the ether, a sort of gentle whir.

“I was there while under Inquisitor Kyungri’s command,” Jeonghan says, and when he speaks, it’s so soft and melodious, Joshua has to lean forward to hear it over the flames around him. “We were a small team, just four of us in total. I was grateful. I had been part of a crusade just weeks earlier, and this felt like relaxation in comparison — if you could call it that.”

Joshua was never part of a crusade. In the old days, he used to want to. There was glory in a crusade, victory.  The Order was so good at them, after all, just a few months at a location and the pyres burn daily. They snuff witches out with such terrifying precision. And Joshua wanted that, held resentment towards whoever kept assigning him to these clean-up investigations - now he’s incredibly grateful for it.

“It was a harbour town,” Jeonghan says. “Busy. Trawlers would come in the morning and everything reeked of fish and seaweed all day, but the nights, oh the _nights_ ,” Jeonghan sighs, resting his chin in his hands. “I’d walk barefoot on the beach for hours, just staring out at the ocean. Completely alone. The breeze would whistle in my ears. The moonlight reflected like a mirror, and for a moment it seems like there’s four moons in the sky, not two.”

If Joshua closes his eyes, he can try and visualize it. It’s not a clear image, not at all, filled with malformations and misconceptions. The ocean probably isn’t as narrow as he imagines it. Probably isn’t such a bright blue either. Jeonghan describes it as a deeper shade, one than he cannot fathom — but his imperfect vision gets its colours from Jeonghan’s words.

“And the sand is coarse. Nothing like the muddy soil here that moulds to the shape of your boot. It’s gritty, and on the hot days, it feels like it roasts the soles of your feet.”

The swamp exists in perpetual moisture, the ground is soft and muddy. The idea of water intermixing with the earth to produce something _painful_ is almost unbelievable. Joshua would protest, demand an elaboration, but he’s transfixed by the cadence of Jeonghan’s voice.

“The wind over the sea is cold as well. No, not cold. Bracing,” Jeonghan corrects himself.  The space between where they sit seems a calculated distance apart.  “But Joshua, I don’t think I’d trade it for anything. Those months by the ocean were some of the best of my life, and I thought of you everyday, hoping you’d see it too.” His voice is wistful, eyes fluttering closed, attempting to recapture the salt-soaked memory.

“Would you ever go back?” Joshua says, catching onto the lingering threads of Jeonghan’s dream.

“I would.” There’s no hesitation. “But I doubt I’ll ever be stationed there again. There’s no need for someone of my skill in such a small and peaceful town. And I’d certainly not be called there after I become Inquisitor, they’d never take it away from Kyungri.”

It’s frightening to see that Jeonghan has no concept of his identity that isn’t intrinsically tied to the organization he was born to. “No,” Joshua says lowering his voice. “I don’t mean like that. Not for… not for the Order. For you.”

“Like a holiday?” Jeonghan chokes out the last word. They’re closer now, careful to avoid Soonyoung’s wandering ears. It doesn’t seem like he’s bothering to listen regardless. He plucks the feathers off the geese, roasted them over the fire and distributed the meat equally but refuses to enter into a conversation with the two of them, excluding himself into silence as he polishes his weapons.

“Just for the sake of being there because you want to,” Joshua says. “So, yes, a holiday.”

“We don’t get holidays, Joshua, you know that,” Jeonghan says, but his voice betrays something more. A longing.

“You don’t,” Joshua can’t help but say. “But I’m not one of you.”

“Keep forgetting that, don’t I?”

The fire burns brighter, as if feeding from the emotion clogging the atmosphere. Soonyoung tosses another log, doesn’t even look down as the flames engulf the wood. “I’m heading off. I’ll be in the area. Jeonghan, if you need me, you know the whistle.”

Joshua knows it too. It’s standard.

Jeonghan dismisses him with a nod. “Don’t stay too late.” There’s no compassion behind it. He wants to sleep. With Soonyoung gone along with his array of spears and bows, it becomes a much quieter affair around the fire. 

“Still can’t believe I found you again,” Jeonghan murmurs, passing him the waterskin. “Feels like fate.” 

Fate is real. Joshua is aware fate is real — because he never used to believe in it before. Rather it was a lesson that he had to be taught, and painfully so. Scars remain, some that not even Seungkwan’s magic can fix. Fate is real because it was fate that led him to meet Seungkwan himself, when the sky was black, his only companion was cold, and Joshua was wholly alone in the world.

And fate exists because it’s the only possible explanation as to why out of all  thousand witch hunters in this world, the one that Joshua knows as intimately as his own soul has returned to him. It’s just so confoundedly impossible that there has to be some binding rope that tethers them together. The reality of his presence is a constant reminder of the force of destiny.  

“Is something wrong?” Jeonghan asks, gazing intently.

The sum of six years has been kind to Jeonghan. Youthful pudginess has been refined to sharp angles, and Joshua is careful not to fix his gaze too long on the cascade of blonde hair, not sure if he’d be able to survive the consequent teasing that would occur if Jeonghan caught him staring. But it’s not just the physical effects of age either, it’s not just that Jeonghan looks good, it’s his demeanor. He walks with such poise, and his eyes seem to scan thirty feet ahead of him before he even takes a step.

“No, nothing. It’s just...” Joshua trails off.

That’s perhaps something to be said for their friendship. Very little needed to be verbalized. It remained, even if so much else did not. “Ah. Yes. This isn’t something I had anticipated either,” Jeonghan says carefully. “We have a lot of years to catch up on.”

“We do,” Joshua says, and then, before he can stop himself he adds, “But I’m happy for the chance to do so.”

Jeonghan’s face softens. “Oh. Yes, absolutely.” He hesitates. “I’ve missed you. I think it’s too obvious to state, it’s like saying the sky is blue — but let me say it anyway. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Joshua says. There’s a noticeable lack of hesitation in their words, nothing trapped behind their teeth - they’re both saying more than what they intended to. Joshua is aware he can’t trust Jeonghan, not as much as he would like to, not without knowing his true motivations, but Joshua is helpless to his own longing soul.

The question of what has been accomplished in the span of six years is one that’s difficult to answer, most likely because it would take the exact duration to illustrate all that has occured. There’s no way for Joshua to carefully lay out each facet of his reconstructed personality and explain the circumstances that led to it — not without the appropriate time spent to elaborate. Because Joshua could tell him. Joshua could simply recount the days he spent riding on the horse that has long since been lost to him, or could tell him what it was like losing the Magistrate or he could tell him the day he took off his ring and never put it back on. But that’s not enough, and that certainly won’t be enough for Jeonghan.

So when Jeonghan leans in closer and asks him: “What have you been doing all these years?”, Joshua isn’t sure how to begin.

His progress isn’t like the linear progression of ranks in the Order of Witch Hunters. Joshua considers his current progress to be that he knows how to make Seungkwan’s favourite dinner off the top of his head. That he knows the exact combination of herbs to dispel a nasty cold. That he can identify the metals in Seungkwan’s cauldron by the flakes of it alone. It’s never any of the things he thought he knew how to do, thought he had to _know_ how to do.

Joshua dismantled all he thought he knew of himself and the world and had to start from scratch. That’s what he feels like. _Reconstructed_.

Like at some point, he’s disassembled each individual component of himself and attempted to piece them together in a different form. He has the same overall shape, the same raven hair, the same kind eyes, but everything else is _different._ His past memories aren’t only faded by the passing of years -- they also feel like they aren’t even his, that he’s staring at the projections of someone else. Someone cruller, someone stronger, someone _worse_. When he was a teenager, he dreamed of the title Inquisitor and the necklaces that would adorn his neck, he dreamed of his own tower in the Citadel and an armada that would bear his name, and throughout all of his ambitions, he dreamed of Jeonghan next to him. Those have become nothing more than grains of sand lost to time. Joshua abandoned all of those dreams a long time ago.

Most of them, anyway.

But the problem is that it feels like somewhere along this reconstruction, Joshua’s lost some parts. That in that painful process where he rubbed his skin raw and savoured the resultant bruises, he misplaced some screw, misplaced some lever, and he’s functional, certainly, but he’s not what he used to be. He’s not _whole_.

And surely Jeonghan must notice. Perhaps that’s why whenever Jeonghan looks at him for too long, it looks like he’s in pain.

“I remember once I was out in the woods, quite late at night, and I was picking reeds by the edge of the lake, and you wouldn’t believe what I found in the toe of my socks,” Joshua begins, holding in a giggle. He paints a picture of innocuous and insignificant details of his life and Jeonghan delights in it, laughing unabashedly, his sunshine smile shining.

It’s nice to see Jeonghan laugh.

Joshua doesn’t often feel lonely. He doesn’t have the time to feel lonely, for one. He spends most of his days occupied with Seungkwan, and it’s impossible to have space to think when involved in his wave of chaos. Even the days independent of Seungkwan, Joshua has friends here. He accompanies Seungcheol around the village, as he goes about his errands, smiling broadly throughout it. And in other times, he sits with Wonwoo as he pulls out his tools and starts transforming metal into toys and it’s every bit as magical as being in the house with Seungkwan.

But there’s a kind of loneliness that creeps up on Joshua sometimes, the kind that comes to sit down in the corner of his mind and pulls out a hundred chairs that remain vacant. It’s impossible not to miss the life he used to live, it’s impossible not to miss the grandeur and the glory of what the Order used to be and it’s impossible not to miss someone like Jeonghan. Someone who was his confidant, his best friend, something more than Joshua thought he’d ever be able to describe.

The chair is filled — and Joshua can’t help his own enjoyment at the image of the man with the long blonde hair sitting right in front.

“I know I’m here for a reason.” It sounds like a warning. “But,” Jeonghan pauses. “After. Maybe. We could...”

“After is a different matter altogether,” Joshua says carefully, and the smile falls from Jeonghan’s face as if it was cut away.

Joshua has not held a sword in years. It’s heavier than what he remembered, the weight of it a surprise in muscles long complacent to dormancy. The hilt is cold, so cold. The silver reflects, a flirtatious wink. He can’t help but marvel at how fitting that a metal so cruel was so fittingly cool.

He’s seen the blades in Wonwoo’s workshop, the ones still red-tipped, glowing from the furnace, newly born into a world of fire and ash. And he’s seen the broken and battered ones that lie in the corner, their owners no longer alive to witness the disrepair of the blades that failed to save them when it mattered most. Once, he even stood by as Wonwoo forged a sword by his own hands and had found it incredible to witness the genesis of such a weapon. There was something almost magical about turning steel into a device of such power. But he still never held it. Never does.

From a practical standpoint, it’s because the blades are hot, smoke wafting from the tip, and he’s seen the skin of blistered hands enough to avoid it. But even then. It wouldn’t have mattered if the heat had dimmed to the icy peaks of the Tundra — Joshua would still avoid it.

It’s just too much of a reminder.

And yet, when Jeonghan holds out the sword, Joshua accepts it. It’s entirely reflexive. You accept a sword when one is given to you. It’s better to be with it than without. You don’t know when you’ll need it. That’s sensible.

They rode out early that morning, and Soonyoung disappeared shortly afterwards, claiming the trail of the boar that continued to evade his sights. Jeonghan halted back and said perhaps the one thing that Joshua would never be able to refuse. “Would you like to spar?”

It’s the addiction he’s not had the joy of relapsing to in a very long time.

He holds the sword in trembling hands, unsure if he wants to drop it or clutch it tighter. The sensory experience of the cold metal causes a thousand, blurred memories to rush back. Jeonghan studies his face so carefully.

“It’s not the best blade,” Jeonghan says. “It’s a mixture of metals. Not very well-balanced. I picked it up on the road, some bandit caravan.”

“Works, though,” Joshua says, more to himself. A sword doesn’t have to be dependable to be deadly.

“Works,” Jeonghan agrees. He withdraws his own blade. Majestic does not do it justice, the glistening silver polished with such care. Volcanic glass caresses the side of the hilt, and the twisting blurring from black to silver looks like a thunderous sky. The sun glints off the gemstone in the hilt. Joshua does not know much about precious stones, far too valuable a mineral for Wonwoo to use in the toys he makes, but he knows this particular one, clearly identifiable by its most luscious and marble pink. It’s rose quartz.

“Did you have that made?” Joshua asks. It’s an obvious question, everything about this sword is personalized to Jeonghan’s own tastes. It’s built with his preferences, like his love of volcanic glass and his favour towards lighter blades, but it also seems to suit him on a much more sentimental level. It’s just as beautiful and as dangerous as the wielder.

“I did,” Jeonghan says, twirling the blade in the air like it’s a ribbon in the sky. “A year ago. The rose quartz was a gift from Inquisitor Sejeong.”

The name is familiar, the person is not. Another memory lost to time.

“Did you name it?” And this too, is just a formality. Joshua knows the comfort of Jeonghan’s romanticism like it’s his own bedroom.

“Don’t smirk at me like that,” Jeonghan says, but he starts laughing. “Am I truly that predictable?”

Jeonghan’s smile is rueful and Joshua adores it. “You absolutely are.”

“Well, yes. I did name it. I don’t use the name often, and don’t you dare tell Soonyoung or he’ll lose whatever respect remains for me.”

“It’s a secret I’ll keep locked up tight,” Joshua assures him. Jeonghan’s sheepishness is quickly hidden as he raises the sword.

“Pallas.”

“Pallas,” Joshua repeats. “It sounds elegant.”

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t fond of this blade,” Jeonghan says, running his finger over the swell of the sword. He holds it out. “Want a closer look?”

Rose quartz winks from where it’s nested in the hilt. He shakes his head.

“It’s been so long,” Jeonghan says, stretching his arms out. “I think a casual sparring round would be good. Just between the two of us. And I must warn you, I am a little out of practice.”

“I guarantee you that I am even more,” Joshua replies. There’s a thread of anxiety that runs through his mind, the ever-present one, a thread as gold as cornsilk, but now there’s excitement as well. It’s a game. It’s a game Joshua used to play a lot, and one he used to _win_ , and he hasn’t felt the taste of victory in a very long time.

“I’ve missed it,” Jeonghan confesses, echoing the sentiment in his mind. “Sparring. There’s hardly time to engage in these kind of activities when I’m under command of an Inquisitor, and in the rare occasions I’m back at the Citadel, I’m far too tired, and none of the recruits want to play with me.” He smirks, and his voice takes on a playful tone. “I think they’re scared.”

“They should be,” Joshua says with a snort. Jeonghan is _terrifying_ — and he wouldn’t be Jeonghan if he wasn’t.  “I wouldn’t put it past you to snip off their fingers.”

“Their nails, only, and if they’re that close, they have it coming,” Jeonghan replies haughtily. “It’s all made for a very lonely affair.”

Joshua doesn’t think he blames some poor seventeen year old for being terrified of Jeonghan, golden-haired and accomplished, casually brandishing a sword drowned in volcanic glass, asking for a ‘fun’ game.

“I’ve never sparred with Soonyoung before. I wouldn’t put it past him to kill me and make it look like an accident,” Jeonghan informs him.

“You’re not the kind of person to assume anyone can just beat you.”

“I’m a very good swordsman — but also, I’m sometimes certain the only reason Soonyoung hasn’t suffocated me in my sleep is because I lock the door at night.” Jeonghan wipes his hand against his shirt and eyes Joshua. “Still, we’re wasting time deliberating on all the people who won’t spar with me. It’s been awfully long since it’s just the two of us.”

“Far too long.”

 “The traditional rules?” Jeonghan holds out his hand. No explanation is needed, neither of them pretend that they could ever forget the traditional rules.

“Yes.” Joshua reaches forward and shakes his hand. They step back — and then all Joshua sees is silver.

His vision blurs.

It’s the sound that tethers him to gravity. Blades clashing together — it’s not something he’s heard in a long time but it’s one he’ll always remember. The sound pierces through his ears and drums around his head. The sensory overload propels him forward and he doesn’t realize he’s blocked a blow until he hears the crunch of Jeonghan’s boots on gravel as he skids back. In the storm of Joshua’s noisy mind, he sands himself down to his most basic instinct. The person he was after eight years of the most intense and precise instruction in the world, a person who was quite possibly one of the best swordsmen of his cohort. One whose body moves, defends and attacks as a sum of ten thousand hours of training.

Jeonghan raises his blade, and it hits against Joshua’s, slamming him backwards like the wind against the juniper trees.

Joshua was not born wielding a blade, not like Jeonghan. Joshua struggled under the blunt force of his instructor’s against his lanky frame, until he stopped struggling and started striking back.

But that’s because he worked for it. Because when then the instructors released them at midnight with the reminder of their attendance for the prayers at sunrise, Joshua would linger for an hour longer, repeating the same drills, _harder_ this time, _faster_ this time. He would not be as unbalanced and foolish as his youth. He would never again embarrass himself or the Order. If the sum of a competent swordsman was the sweat of his brow and calloused hands, Joshua paid it in full and in double.

And then there was Jeonghan, who was by every definition, a natural. Even now, he spins back and forth, his sword an extension of himself. Perhaps this is where his lineage becomes the most evident, that he must have been weaned on wooden batons. His bloodline surges forth with generations of master swordsman. Blades would bend to his will like he could tame the metal itself. And even if he had no use of the extra hours, he would never let Joshua stay late alone, never liked to leave him.

There’s mirrored determination in their faces as they circle around each other. It’s almost a relief to stop thinking of Jeonghan as himself and all the history associated with him. this is just a very intense and very fun _game_ and he’s just an opponent on the other edge of the field. An opponent who, as Joshua realizes, faints to his left frequently, who has a second pause after every swing, who’s not quite as fast as Joshua is.

Joshua has been intimately acquainted with Jeonghan in almost every way. That includes the flaws in his sword fighting technique, entirely unnoticed by outsiders mesmerized by his skill, but glaringly obvious to Joshua, who’s had Jeonghan on his back on the courtyard floor of the Citadel many, many times.

It’s difficult to beat him - but Joshua could. He’s done in the past. His opponent is far more skilled than he is, but proficiency does not mean success. He could beat him. He could try.

The rose quarts sparkles at him at every angle, granting him a view of every facet when Jeonghan gets far too close. It’s a beautiful stone, certainly, but there’s no serenity to be felt, not when the only reason he can see it in such detail is because Jeonghan’s treasured Pallas is against his neck. But Joshua has lived with a very disordered individual for a long time and he knows how to dodge, and he knows how to duck, and disappears underneath.

Ten steps backwards, ten steps forward. It’s like a dance. A sword swings, another repels, they clash, they step back and the rhythm continues. There’s a reminiscent of a snarl on Jeonghan’s lips, the expression of someone who had anticipated an easy win, and was not pleased to find that was not the case. His eyes are so set in concentration, there’s no trace of kindness in them — only determination. Locks of dislodged golden hair obscure his face. Something dark and heady settles in the back of Joshua’s mind seeing Jeonghan like this.

Exhaustion takes its toll. He doesn’t spend his day in idleness, but he’s not as fit as Jeonghan. Sweat condenses at the back of his neck, and this time he ducks half a second too late. Jeonghan’s sword strikes against his shoulder, the blunt edge alone, and it’s a dull pain, nothing he hasn’t felt a thousand times worse before, but Joshua staggers backwards.

And then he continues to falter. It’s hard to regain the rhythm, not when his muscles protest the motion, his shoes skidding on the moist grass. He attempts to analyze the situation, all available opportunities presenting in his mind. It’s not looking good.

His body begins to wear down, breath staggered, and there’s only so much that can be done about that. He can’t manifest adrenaline out of willpower alone. If he only he had his own sword, the one under his bed, that sword was _incredible_ , it would have been perfect. It’s a thin blade, and it’s _fast_ , it was forged under direct orders of Inquisitor Jihoon. The hilt was a dull bronze but at the edge there was a streak of gold, a personal touch, a symbol of wealth and prosperity, and Joshua used to be fascinated by the way it would glint at the sun. That was a sword Joshua could wield, not this, not this mass-produced hunk of metal, he wanted his _own_ sword.

The reality of his own thoughts catch up to him and he freezes — and Jeonghan carelessly sends the sword flying out of his hands, landing some distance away on the dirty ground. Jeonghan glides closer, predatory glint in his eyes, and juts his sword out. Joshua ducks, tipping backwards, and his back slams against the ground. He’s utterly powerless, bent underneath his boot. It happens so fast.

Jeonghan’s satisfaction must taste so wonderful in his mouth.

“Submit,” Jeonghan says.

It’s the rules of the game. Joshua obeys. The blade underneath his throat demands it.

He kneels, feels the gravel against his aching knees that protest the movement. Disappointment clouds his vision. The loss is bitter, even with the realization of  how unlikely victory would have been to begin with. Jeonghan has always just been one step above. He stands in front of Joshua with all the grace of a god, sunlight streaming behind him, hair a violent glow of gold. He holds out his arm, and the ring on his left hand sparkles enticingly.

To lose in battle means to kiss the ring of the victor, in the center, the middle band that represents the Order. Jeonghan’s ring is polished, gleaming. Joshua can remember watching the day he put it on for the first time, when they stood above the fire in their graduation gowns, watching the silver fuse together under the ember glow. Joshua hasn’t even touched his own ring in years, hasn’t seen another in even longer.

But it’s the rules of the game. Joshua pulls Jeonghan’s hand closer, gently, as if he’s a lighthouse guiding a storm-stricken ship to port. Joshua’s thumb trails up the back of his hand, but he leans closer but all he sees in the Order’s insignia and it burns a hole in his mind. The Order has never been worthy of Jeonghan, worthy of what Jeonghan can do.

Joshua flips Jeonghan’s hand over, palm up. Jeonghan’s heart rate lurches at the pulsepoint. Joshua traces a path from his middle finger to his wrist, passing over the ring — and then places his lips upon his fingertips. There’s a sharp intake of breath. His skin is warm. The ring is cold. Joshua continues kissing up his palm with the gentle reverence someone as divine as Jeonghan deserves.

His lips are over Jeonghan’s pulsepoint now, and Joshua pauses, savouring the rapid fluttering. It could be so easy to lapse into addiction. Just a heartbeat, and it’s enough for Joshua to dedicate his life. Joshua craves more of this reaction, more of everything. He gazes up, slowly, and does not think he was prepared for the sight of Jeonghan, eyes intent and dark.

It’s very easy to want Jeonghan. It’s familiar, even. His hand cups under Joshua’s chin and Joshua exhales.

“You’re better than I remembered,” Jeonghan says. His voice is heavy.

The intimacy of the gesture rushes through his body. Joshua would never bow before the Order, not anymore, but he almost misses the submission that comes with it, the absolute surrender to authority to those who have earned it. Jeonghan possess the natural aura of command. Joshua would never bow before the Order, but perhaps he’d bow before Jeonghan.

He breaks out of Jeonghan’s tame grasp, moves backwards. He rises to his feet unsteadily, and shakes the dirt off his knees before he looks up at Jeonghan. His eyes remind Joshua of pyres.

“Thank you. That was…” Joshua trails off. Blonde hair clings to the sweat on Jeonghan’s face. Victory glows on him.

“The Order lost something irreplaceable the day you left,” Jeonghan says, suddenly, abruptly, the words spilling from his mouth like overflowing water. “You’ve always been incredible. One of the best.”

It doesn’t sound like the words of the Order. It sounds like Jeonghan’s own.

“Joshua, you could come back.”

Air struggles to pass through the bars of his throat. “The Order only wants me back because I'm their property.”

“If that's the Order's wishes, I won't argue, but let me speak for myself and myself alone when I say I want you back because I miss you.”

Joshua’s lips taste of metal.

 

“I cannot fathom _why_ you left,” Jeonghan says. “That’s the one gap in my knowledge. I think I’ve determined the rest, figured out when.” He answers himself. “Four years ago. It was on the path to the Tundra. I think I even I figured out how you ended up in this miserable Mire — you sold your horse in exchange for safe passage through the swamp. But I can’t fathom _why_.”

Jeonghan is far too perceptive for his own good. He sits there, and this isn't him assembling a puzzle, no, he's watching Joshua and taking apart every facet of his personality and determining its origin. He's breaking him. “You’re loyal, not listless. You wouldn’t just grow tired and decide to pack up and leave. That’s not you. It doesn’t make sense.”

“You approach this as if it’s an investigation,” Joshua says. The fire crackles. It’s blindingly bright, but it’s better than looking at Jeonghan.

“I am,” Jeonghan agrees. “Because you won’t give me the answers I need, so I’ll figure it out for myself.”

 _Don’t break me_ , Joshua thinks. _I’ve been reconstructed once before, and I lost so much then. I won’t survive it again._

“I don’t think it was something you planned, not at all. Everyone I had asked about you just told me that you were probably in some wilderness somewhere. You never gave any signs that you were doubting your place in the Order.”

He’ll make a good Inquisitor.

“Wilderness is a vague term,” Joshua says with a snort. “Is that the best they could come up with?”

Jeonghan ignores him, continuing to lay out all his known facts. “Your last recorded activity is highly classified but I managed to surmise you were sent to the Tundra but you never seemed to make it that far. Before that, you returned to Fort Whitewater for a celebration after the end of the crusade. It was an invitation from High Inquisitor Jihoon.”

“High Inquisitor?” Joshua repeats. “That’s your father.”

There’s a flash of something in Jeonghan’s face, a brief crack in the facade of the questioner. “He stepped down. Recently. Jihoon assumed the role as the head of the Order.”

“That’s incredible,” Joshua murmurs, despite himself. He still remembers bowing at his feet, remembers the _praise_ Jihoon bestowed upon him. He would ask why Jeonghan’s father retired, but is not given the opportunity.

“I’m told that he specifically requested your presence in the Tundra.” There’s almost a tone of disbelief in his voice.

Dormant pride wells up. “You aren’t the only one who’s good at what you do,” Joshua says, quietly. “Inquisitor Jihoon had personally commended me. Said I was among the best recruits he’d ever seen.”

“I was not doubting him in the slightest,” Jeonghan says, quick to defend. “That just surprises me even more. You were so _good,_ Joshua, what went wrong? Did you even make it to the Tundra?”

He didn’t. He didn’t get anywhere near the Tundra. And now he probably never will either. Such a cold place would uncage that wicked magic in his veins, cause his entire body to freeze. He’d become his own coffin. “I didn’t.”

“I figured. High Inquisitor Jihoon wanted to know what happened. So many people asked about you over the past few years.” Jeonghan pauses. There’s a weariness that drips from his face, like the strain starts to show. “I wonder if you knew how much everyone missed you.”

“I can’t think that very many did,” Joshua says, and he feels an emptiness uncurl in his heart. “They want to know my whereabouts so they can write on the registry whether I’m dead or alive. They don’t care about me. I don’t think any of them ever did.”

Jeonghan in the firelight looks more like a creature of embers than of blood and bone. “I cared. Joshua, I cared.”

His lips are dry. Joshua can’t stop staring at them. “You’ve always been an exception.”

“The Order usually defines me as ‘exceptional’ but I’m sure I agree with your interpretation as well,” Jeonghan says, and even if his jokes cross the border of narcissism, it certainly alleviates some of the tension that starts to thicken the air. A long time ago, such privacy would have been appreciated. Now, Joshua can’t help but wish Soonyoung reemerges from the woods to break this spell that settles between them.

There’s a set of words that exist. There’s a set of words that when arranged in the correct order can explain to Jeonghan why Joshua left, why Joshua pulled his rings off, and why Joshua willingly lives in a humid swamp with mosquitos the size of his thumb. And Joshua knows if he can come up with these words, he’d be able to convince Jeonghan that what he did was right, because ultimately it isn’t just enough for Jeonghan to accept.

Joshua wants him to _understand_.

“I never planned to.” His throat closes up. “It wasn’t my intention at all. I always wanted what I always wanted.” He sounds so silly, so childish. But he never had to prepare these words before, never had to explain why he left. “My dream was always the same. To be a hunter, to be an Inquisitor, to have the Tower, that was always the plan. That never changed.”

“But it did,” Jeonghan says.

And that’s just the problem. “It did.”

“That wasn’t just your dream. That was our dream.” Jeonghan sounds so much less composed than he should be. “Why would you leave what you’ve dedicated your entire life to? _Why_?”   

He doesn’t answer. Stares at the skin of his hands. Once, they were scarred. “Do you ever get tired of the smell of burning flesh?”

Jeonghan stiffens. “Where did that come from?”

“I haven’t been near a burning in so long. The last was at the Fort. And that was four years ago. Probably longer.” Geometric buildings, fragments of  roof tiles littering the street floor, tainted well water making the street wet. Felled trees like pencil tips. And the stakes. The stakes were everywhere, felt like they outnumbered what little citizens remained. Sharp wood, surrounded by hay, perpetually ready to be ignited. “Four years, and I can still smell it. Still feels like the smoke clouds my lungs.”

Jeonghan doesn’t look at Joshua anymore. He’s transfixed at the fire in front of him. Joshua can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking of a different blaze, an inferno he lit himself. “It’s just part of our duty. There are witches who can’t be controlled, and magic,” Jeonghan struggles to swallow, “magic lingers even in a corpse. You know this.”

Joshua’s seen death. He doesn’t think there’s anything magical about it. There was nothing special about the way the Magistrate gazed, lifeless at an empty sky. The frost died with him.

“You’ve been all over the world, but isn’t that the constant? Where the Order goes, so does fire.”

“It’s what we do,” Jeonghan says, and there’s something that ignites inside of him now. “It’s what we’ve always done. It’s the only way that _works_. How else do you dispatch abominations, what else do you do to witches who can’t control themselves and will harm everyone unfortunate enough to be near them?”

“Burning them alive doesn’t seem like it should be a solution,” Joshua says. His hands shake. There’s no scars, no burn marks, no blemishes. It’s Seungkwan’s influence, his healing purged every imperfection from Joshua’s physical body. That just left what remained to be entirely incurable.

“Is this the high horse you’ve decided to mount yourself on, Joshua?” Jeonghan says, and there’s such disapproval in his tone that Joshua feels like he’s being stripped bare. “Come now. We both know you’ve killed people.”

Joshua knows he has. But he didn’t need to be reminded of it. Certainly not so bluntly. Certainly not so _casually_ , like it was a statement of fact as simple as the weather or what colour shirt he was wearing. He’s killed people. “That doesn’t mean I don’t regret it.”

“They were abominations, Joshua, the worst of witches. You were saving them from themselves,” Jeonghan says, almost as if coaxing empathy out of him. “You know this, you were taught this.”

“By the Order.” There’s a phantom weight on the middle finger of his left hand. He hasn’t felt it in a while. “The Order taught us to kill because that’s what the Order wants. I just don’t know if it’s the only answer.”

Jeonghan considers for a moment. He’s keeping himself remarkably restrained. “It’s not something anyone wants to do. But it has to be done. It’s part of our duty. We were trained to protect, and that means making difficult decisions, and living with the consequences.” Jeonghan doesn’t seem like someone who’s had sleepless nights. Jeonghan’s always dreamt peacefully. “If this was what bothered you, you could have come to the Citadel. You could have spoken to someone, an Inquisitor. I think Sejeong could help—”

“You aren’t going to put me through re-education, Jeonghan,” Joshua says, and he startles himself at the determination in his voice.

Even Jeonghan is taken aback, eyes wide. “I wasn’t going to. I just…”

“I can’t go back to the Order consciously knowing they murder and plunder all under the guise of their corrupted righteousness.” The threat of magic is not nearly as all-consuming as Joshua had been taught. When a mirror cracks, it’s impossible not to notice, not with the way the glass splinters, fractured into a hundred distorted images.

“You don’t even sound like you,” Jeonghan shakes his head. “It’s not uncommon for hunters to disconnect, especially after a major upheaval, but the Order is here for you, I’m—”

“The Order would have me killed, and you know it.” Joshua shocks himself with the bluntness of his words, and breaks off. Joshua lets the burden of truth weigh on his mind. The Order would kill him. Not for the first time, he thinks of himself hanged at the top of the Citadel gates. Thinks his body would linger there as a warning.

“Joshua, don’t say things like that. Don’t say that you’d…”

“It’s why you waited until we were alone in the middle of the woods to have this conversation.” Their privacy hurts. “We know the Order.”

Jeonghan presses his hands against his eyes, blocking out his vision. “I know. I know the reality of it all. I’m trying…” he sighs deeply. “Just give me time. Give me time to sort out the witch here, and then we can talk. We could…”

The fire falters.     

“Is that what you’re going to do with the witch you find here? Drag them to the town square and set them alight?” Joshua asks, and his tone is measured, it is, but it’s Jeonghan who snaps.

“Would it matter if I did? It’s my fucking job,” he snarls. “I am here under the command of an Inquisitor, backed by the full extent of the Order of Witch Hunters. Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you anymore, but you know what, it means _everything_ to me.”

There’s a divide that separates them, and once it was just the space between them, and now, now it feels like the distance between galaxies. Jeonghan, in the center of his own universe, looks weary.

“I didn’t want to fight, Joshua. I just wanted to know why, and I still don’t think I know. Something happened between the Citadel and the Tundra and I don’t think you were the same ever since.”

Jeonghan always had an eerie way of reading people.

“Whatever happened doesn’t really matter. This is who I am now. I can leave, if that’s what you want, I can go,” Joshua says, and he’s already dreaming of his escape, of riding back into the swamp, even walking if he has to. Being so close to Jeonghan is starting to hurt.

“Don’t,” Jeonghan says, so quietly it’s barely heard over the fire. “Don’t go.”

Joshua’s breath is unsteady. He’s never been able to refuse Jeonghan, and Jeonghan _knows_ this. How insidious, for him to be such a powerful weapon and still demand punishment by his own self-infliction. “Are you sure?”

“Please.” Embers spark into the sky. Disappear into a night of black sky and two moons.

There wasn’t a choice, was there? Merely the illusion of one, and it vanished as fast as the fragments of fire.

“Okay,” Joshua says. It’s just a day or two more. Coming home early will have no benefit. Might just make Seungkwan even more vulnerable of a target. His breathing evens out as he reflects on these facts, rationalizing his choice to stay. Joshua curses his memory because it knows Jeonghan too well, knows the signs that Jeonghan is hurting.

“Jeonghan, I didn’t mean to…” He lets the sentence hang. Didn’t mean to upset him? Didn’t mean to be a disappointment so painful? Didn’t mean to leave the Order and break apart their perfectly constructed future, drown their dreams in the river?

Jeonghan rises without another word. He passes by Joshua on the way to his tent and pauses, a hand resting on his shoulder. Warm. “I used to always think we were fated. This is perhaps the saddest way to find out I was mistaken.”


	4. Flashover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things get icy

They never gave it a name, but it demanded one.

It's hard to determine its exact origins, but the lore seems to say that a coven of witches in the icy Tundra had brewed the disease in their cauldron during the Harvest Moon. Perhaps they had good intentions at one point. The frost was a way to stop corpses from rotting, the smell calling ghouls to partake in the feast. It didn’t die with the host. It grew out of control. Intentions matter little when the outcome was a disease which crept through fingernails, took root in the lungs and travelled, freezing every vein on the way up till blood was as thick as sludge.

And that's all Joshua knew about to begin with, because what reason did he, a hot-blooded witch hunter, have to worry about a disease inflicting some peasants? He was in the Tundra for important business, after all, the Magistrate had requested his presence for an important trial of these witches, requested Joshua to accompany him personally. It was a long journey. He had far more present worries.

But it's funny, really, how the corners of the world curve to a sphere, the way the wind blows, the way it can send a snowflake from the North so far that it can pass right by Joshua's eyes and he won't even notice it.

Up until he starts finding the cracks forming on his own lips. It starts off simple enough, the flaking skin, and Joshua just assumes he hasn't been drinking enough water which at this point is just a fact. He's been on the road for a while, and their supplies are limited — and he'd hardly trouble the Magistrate with such silly worries like bathroom breaks.

But then the Magistrate starts commenting on how cold the nights have gotten, and that's just so _strange_ , because they've been in humid marshlands now, sweat clings to Joshua’s skin because of how hot is is, he hasn't slept with a shirt on for weeks.

It took him so long to realise what was happening and by the time he did, the worst had already come to past. The Magistrate shivered in the corner as Joshua urged the horses on faster, ignoring the own frost crawling in his veins. The doctors they passed were perplexed, told him to ride along to the next city, that there’d be someone who could help there, as if it wasn't weeks away. Joshua lit so many fires around the Magistrate. It already looked like a funeral pyre.

Joshua doesn't like to think about the rest.

It'll be a night, as hot and humid as any other, like the entire Mire is being cooked in a furnace, buzzing from the sticky mosquitoes. That’s when he feels it. The frost will creep in his bones, then, never quite unleashing its fury on the rest of his body but never quite dying either. Dormancy was brief. It's those nights in particular that he's grateful for Seungkwan, who somehow always just knows, would just look at Joshua and the tension in his jaw as he holds his teeth from chattering, and he'd sit him next to the hearth, wrapping his arms around him, even if Seungkwan himself begins to sweat. It passes by in a few hours, these cold spells, and it happens infrequently enough for Joshua to stop worrying.

His bones don't forget though. His bones never do, can't shake away the cold that settled within the marrow. He used to hate it. Now he’s developed a sort of appreciation for the lingering reminder. He knows who he used to be and he has a lot to repent before he can bury his own corpse. The frost won’t let it slip his mind.

 

He sits by the fire, sees his fingertips turn blue and know he’s forgotten himself for too long.

Jeonghan is comfortable in his obliviousness, recounting Soonyoung's feat of bravery. “A boar! A whole boar, all by himself! Just sauntering in, blood all over his cloak, dragging it behind him,” Jeonghan says, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice. Soonyoung rattles the pot some distance away, and suppresses a smile at Jeonghan's words.

“It's really impressive. I've seen nothing like it,” Joshua says, and he really does try to sound enthusiastic, unable to stop himself from wanting Soonyoung to hate him less. It’s nice that Soonyoung finally caught the creature that was attaining mythical status but it's difficult to convey that. His voice sounds detached, words struggling to come out in between the ice crystalizing up his throat.

“It's going to be a feast,” Jeonghan says, eyes glassy with hunger.

Joshua attempts a hum in response.

It's not convincing enough. Jeonghan looks at him with concern. “Is everything okay Joshua? You've been a little quiet this evening.”

“I'm fine,” he insists. And then relents with: “Just a little cold.”

“Really?” Jeonghan cocks his head to the side, curious. “It's been a sweltering night. I wouldn't even be this close to the fire if I didn't want the light.”

Joshua shrugs. It's been a long time since the last cold spell, and he feels himself unprepared for the way his own blood starts to thicken. The fire does little to suppress the frost. He longs for the warmth of his bed, of the hearth, of Seungkwan holding him so tightly, radiating celestial light. Healing magic, in the most simple of forms — a kind touch.

Jeonghan is not Seungkwan, and doesn't possess magical abilities. He can't conjure light at his fingertips nor can he turn gold into ash but it doesn't seem to matter. He regards Joshua carefully, and without warning, sits next to him, hand brushing his forehead.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan gasps. “You're freezing.” Jeonghan's hands clutch both sides of his face, running down the planes of his cheekbones.

“I'm just a little cold,” Joshua mutters but instantly leans into the warmth of his touch, unable to stop himself.

“Are you ill?”

“No.” He says it firmly. He isn't ill, not really. This isn't the Blue Frost at its worst. The touch of Jeonghan's skin feels so lovely, the way it caresses over his ashen face and Joshua sighs in relief, unable to stop himself wishing that Jeonghan was even closer. He brings his own hands up to Jeonghan's, cupping over them and they start to fill with colour again, a rosy red. It’s so kind of Jeonghan to donate his heat, he's just so _warm_ , so nice to hold, if only he was even closer— 

Jeonghan notices this. As of course he does, because these sort of intimate touches are by no means something that is permitted between them. This was not his intention when he was checking Joshua’s temperature. He stands up abruptly and Joshua feels regret course through.

“I'm sorry, I—” Joshua stammers. There's no way to mask the reality, to make it sound any less than what it was: Joshua taking advantage of a warm body. It didn't mean anything, but attempting to say that sounds even worse.

Jeonghan fingers unpin the broach which holds his cloak together and he handles it around Joshua. He sinks into the warmth, wraps it around him like a shield against the world. He should refuse, he's aware of that, it's forbidden to remove a hunter's robes, and certainly, for the purpose of warming up a defector is not one that would be easily explained. But Jeonghan does anyway, kneels in front of him, pins it to him snugly.

“I'll get some more wood, make another fire,” he says, voice calm and measured. “Will that help?”

“It's fine, it'll pass,” Joshua murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. Jeonghan's cloak is thick and above all, still has his body heat trapped in it. His lips taste the water of melting ice crystals.

“I don't have any more clothes I can give you without becoming indecent,” Jeonghan says with a hint of amusement. Joshua looks up and distantly realizes, oh, Jeonghan prefers the choice of waistcoat when it comes to off duty uniform. It suits him. Really, it does. A dark emerald against a black shirt. The dignity he possesses radiates off of him. “But does that help?”

“Incredibly so.” Joshua wipes the corner of his mouth with his hand. “Jeonghan, thank you, I'm sorry for being such a burden.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Jeonghan says, and for a moment he looks like he wants to run his hands through Joshua's hair and then reconsiders, letting his fingers card down his own ponytail instead. “You're clearly sick. I'm not going to let you suffer in silence.”

Speaking is difficult. Perhaps that’s for the best. If it wasn’t, he might have told him.

Jeonghan tosses another log in the fire. “I'm sure you'll feel better after you eat something. I'll tell Soonyoung to hurry up.” He wipes his hands on his pants and reaches down for his satchel.

“Don't,” is the pathetic whine that leaves Joshua's mouth. “Don't.”

He feels like a child with this blatant begging, this absolute desperation to receive his affection. But he's cold, and alone and he reaches for Jeonghan like he's a lifeline. Jeonghan gazes at him for so long, shame takes hold and Joshua almost wishes he never said anything — and then he sits down next to him, not quite touching, not quite apart.

“Does this happen a lot? These feelings of coldness?” Jeonghan’s voice is soft.

“It's a vestige of an old illness,” Joshua discloses. “I'll be fine soon.”

A frown settles on his face, as if unsatisfied with the answer. “I can always take you back to the town myself, if needed. We can both ride Levi.”

“It doesn't matter,” Joshua murmurs. His heartbeats have grown heavy.

“Of course it does, it's you,” Jeonghan says, and pulls the cloak around him tighter. It feels like a phantom embrace.

 

“How do you feel?”

The sleepy dots of Joshua's mind struggle to connect. It's Jeonghan's voice of course, but there's no reason for him to wake him up now already, the bell will ring when classes begin. Joshua burrows deeper in the heat of his sheets and mutters something that doesn't even attempt at being comprehensible.

There's a laugh, short and playful. “Joshua?”

He had been dreaming about being lost in the Tower Dexter. No, not lost. Searching. And he was so close to finding what he was looking for, Jeonghan can't just come and disturb him now.

A tentative hand strokes through his hair, and what tendrils of sleep capture him, pull him back.

 

 

 At those gangly stages of puberty, Joshua’s balance was known for being hideously poor. That’s not to say he was clumsy enough to go falling off the parapets as they marched around the Citadel — though that has happened on certain occasions to some other recruits. No, the problem was when shields were introduced, when the additional weight resulted in his constant unbalancing, the clang of it clattering to the ground being the background music to every training session. He was a gawky sixteen year old, and an abrupt growth spurt left him feeling foreign in his own skin and perhaps if his instructors had been more compassionate, they would given him the necessary leniency.

Witch hunters are not made through compassion, however, they are made through persistence.

His punishment seemed objectively cruel then, expecting someone barely out of childhood to cross along the unsteady railings of the battlements, balancing twin shields in each hand. A moment’s hesitation would mean dropping. A misstep would mean falling. Perhaps even death. Adrenaline was what kept him going. He was made to do this for hours, so many that they blurred into a indistinct and prolonged instant. He was far too focused on keeping his footsteps short and secure, one after the other, as the eyes of his instructor gazed into his own.

“Again,” he’d say as Joshua completed another lap, as his muscles burned, as sweat coated his forehead, as his vision began to blur. “Again.”

The sun turned and turned until it was gone from view, obscured by Tower Sinister — and it was only then that his instructor called for him to come down. He stumbled from exhaustion, but did not fall. What happened that night was impossible to remember in any sort of monumental detail. The imprint of pain is all that’s left in his body, the way his legs burned, the headache that pressed down on his skull. He found his way back to his bed, and even drenched in sweat, he collapsed in the covers.  There was one memory, still clear — and that was Jeonghan rushing next to him, wiping his brow, fetching him water, promising that they could spar in the morning together, practicing so he’d never have to be made to do this again.

He never fell again.

You can destroy any habit if you’re willing to be cruel enough. The Academy proved that much. You could train out deficiencies, you could train out vices, you could train out addiction, but one weakness that he could not seem to purge from himself was the one that came with golden hair and a smile like the sun.

 

 

“Right, so this is a fucking sleepover now?” Soonyoung's tone could cause the river to dry up.

“He's _ill_.”

“Sure, my sincerest fucking sympathies. Let's just stop our investigation because your friend has a cold, that'll go great when our Inquisitor reads the report, I’m sure he’ll entirely agree. Let me think how I'll start it,” and then there's the sound of him pacing, “'Oh Lord Inquisitor, my inspiration and motivation and reason for breathing, I would like to inform you of our mission that we abruptly halted because Jeonghan wanted to play a game of domesticity with his farm friend’. How does that sound?”

Jeonghan's tone is a knife. “Oh, but Soonyoung, are you intending to put this in your report? Our off-duty hunting trip? Is that really what our Lord Inquisitor would want to see?” His voice gets closer and closer. “That I should tell him you got so unbearable and insubordinate I had to turn you loose in the trees so you'd think straight?”

There's a distinct pause and by now Joshua's eyes are wide open. His fingers curl in the cloak around him.

Soonyoung's voice is restrained, a muzzle around a vicious beast. “I'll remember this, Jeonghan.”  

 

 

The formal education of witch hunting begins at the age of twelve. Joshua’s memory has always been foggy and what he remembers of his first years are vague at best, memories bleeding into each other. The days were similar, the same routines embedded in his mind. He remembers when he packed, remembers his mother sending him off with a smile, and he remembers the pride more than anything else. Because while faces and names blur together in time, such a sharp emotion remains, and Joshua was just so _proud_ to join the Order.

There’s a feeling of pride that always used to follow him — perhaps as constantly as Jeonghan himself. Though to claim that Jeonghan followed him would be laughable. No, there was never an issue where they were ahead or behind of the other, rather their movement was in complete and total tandem, one foot left, one foot right. Inseparable would not be a fitting descriptor, because they _could_ be parted, and often were, for training, for drills, for lessons. That changed little. Distance could not diminish their bond.

Joshua had assumed that to be proven incorrect. That if it was enough distance, if it was enough time, the threads of their bond would fray and sever, and oh, how mistaken he had ended up being. He sits in the attic of his home, Jeonghan’s cloak wrapped around him, witnessing the curling and uncurling of the flames as it heats his bones. It's good to be back.

In the narrative Joshua constructed for himself, he set this up as the end. He never got the chance to say farewell to Jeonghan in the way that he wanted to all those years ago, and this was that one opportunity to do so. A final reminder to all that Joshua lost when he left the Order — the reality was far less clean cut.

Joshua had been weary when they returned to the Mire, and Jeonghan only let him go home once confident in his ability to walk by himself. There had never been a distinct goodbye, and by the time Joshua had realized this, he was already in his bedroom, being fussed over by Seungkwan.

It was nice seeing him again. Reminded him why he’s here.

He’s been a witch hunter since he was twelve, yes, but he left the Order four years ago. He struggles to reconcile the person he was before, this hunter of precise skill and dogged determination with who he is now, soft-spoken and shy. Jeonghan only knew him as the former, and if Joshua was to allow his own insecurities to get the better of him, he would admit that he had wondered if Jeonghan would even want his company, or if he had just been consumed by nostalgia.

The warmth of the cloak that surrounds him seems to suggest otherwise. Joshua has to return it, the mere idea of holding onto active Order property is one that sends shivers through him. Joshua hesitates, though, with the knowledge that far less than any other organization, this is _Jeonghan’s._

Seungkwan is quiet. This is not a common occurrence, and Joshua savours this respite. He knows he has a tendency to overthink, to drag his thoughts out and beat them against the walls of his mind, and the tenor of Seungkwan’s voice is a pleasant distraction.  

The frost never leaves, not really. Winter makes a home in the marrow of his bones. The chill is ever-present, infringing on the corners of his consciousness — it’s just a matter of whether it consumes his thoughts or does not. Joshua has no illusions about the way the swamp has trapped him here forever.  It’s independent of deserting the Order. Not because of Seungkwan, not because of anyone but because the Mire is a world of eternal warmth. The thick blanket of humidity that smothers the swamp is perhaps the only thing that keeps Joshua alive on the bad days. Even when the clouds above open and rain drenches his skin, the heat remains. He would never have been able to go back to the Citadel, certainly not in the winter months when thick snow drapes over the grounds. He already has enough inside of him.

Even his hometown, the one he barely remembers, the one with those grassy hills, where everyone speaks in the language that’s all but foreign to him has three different words for ‘snow’. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to go back. The nights were so cold there, frost cracking over the window.

If he did tell Jeonghan everything, he’d have to tell him about the Blue Frost, and he wouldn’t do that. It would be unwise to reveal such a weakness to someone who could be considered an enemy, and Joshua could not risk Jeonghan discovering the association between Seungkwan and his illness. And that’s just one of the hundred reasons that fall like raindrops on why Joshua keeps his silence, but the one that clings to the window of his mind is the thought that Jeonghan would _worry_. He’d worry, as he already has been shown to do, and there’d be no point to all the wasted emotional turmoil. There’s no medicine and there’s no cure. The frost that exists inside Joshua has become every bit a part of himself as the hair that grows on his head or the blood that flows through his veins.

“You’ve been quiet,” Seungkwan notes, gazing up from the cauldron. He’s so comfortable moving around on his knees now. The ceiling is low, the attic never having been intended as any sort of permanent dwelling space, but Seungkwan’s small frame must have certain advantages.

It’s been almost three weeks since he’s been able to go outside without fear.

“Thinking,” Joshua says, and upon seeing the look on Seungkwan’s face, laughs.

“You’re going to have to be a little bit more specific than that, Joshua, I’m afraid you are actually constantly thinking.”

 “The Frost is getting bad again.” He feels ice crystals caressing the tips of his eyelashes. “Or will, soon.”

Seungkwan frowns. On unsteady legs, he stands up, ducking to avoid knocking his head on the ceiling beams. “You said it happened when you were hunting as well. Are you okay?”

He regrets his honesty. “Absolutely.”

“You say that and yet I don’t believe you.” Seungkwan presses the back of his hand to Joshua’s forehead and represses a sigh. “You feel cold.”

“Your hands are just warm.”

Seungkwan slides his hands down to cup Joshua’s jaw and before he can protest that he doesn’t _need_ help, the room is engulfed in the warm honey glow of Seungkwan’s hands. It radiates outward, and Joshua sinks into complete bliss. Seungkwan’s magic has always had such strong auditory associations, there’s always a crackle, always a spark — except when he heals. And then it’s like the sound of rain, soft and soothing. It clouds over his mind, golden and glowing. The chill dissipates under the heated touch of Seungkwan’s magic. Joshua had not realized the extent of the chaos of his mind until now, when all he thinks and feels is Seungkwan’s magic, in its most gentle form.

“Better,” Seungkwan says decisively, and slides his hands away. It’s only because Joshua maintains eye contact that he notices the way his shoulders slump. He never admits it to Joshua, but healing magic is a form that drains — but he hides his tiredness well.

“Thank you,” Joshua murmurs, rubbing his fingers over the places Seungkwan’s fingers blessed, as if he can cling onto the remaining magic that fills the air.

“Don’t be afraid to ask me, Joshua,” Seungkwan says, kneeling down at his desk again. He cuts a row of mandrake stalks thin and sprinkles them with pepper. “I’m a healer before I’m anything else. I just want to help you.”

 

“What possible reason do you have to be here?”

Soonyoung leans against the wall of the inn, rolling his eyes. There’s tension in his posture, his shoulders braced. He gazes at Joshua with naked distaste as if he was the most unpleasing sight in the world, like he caused milk to curdle with his presence.

“Soonyoung.” Joshua had not expected to encounter him, and is entirely unsure how to interact with him, if he’d even allow him to be called by his name. He would not put it past Soonyoung to withdraw his sword and demand a duel to the death for the deed. “It’s good to see you again.”

Soonyoung snorts in response. Any hope that Joshua had of a reconciliation to occur over their hunting trip has been squashed. “Cannot say the same. I did not appreciate my hunting trip ending a few hours earlier because you were feeling a little under the weather.”

Indignation prickles under Joshua’s skin. He’s had his eyelids ice themselves shut — this city boy has barely a clue of how powerful the Frost is, how positively _lethal_. But he swallows it down, maintains his placidity even if it’s bitter.

“Did you get the meat from the boar back?” Joshua asks.

Jeonghan had mentioned they made contact with some butcher’s wife in the village who would cook and season it for them — and here Soonyoung lets out the closest thing to a smile. “I did. Felt good to have some actual flesh for once in a while. I don’t know how often you travel out of this swamp, but food on the path is some of the worst.”

The Order of Witch Hunters was exceptionally good at exterminating people, less so at making rations.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Joshua nods. This is better, trying to make connections between their common interests.

 Soonyoung regards him with a raised eyebrow. “Can I assume that you’re here for Jeonghan?”

“I have to return his cloak.” Joshua holds up his arm, the black fabric draped over it like a cloud. “Is he inside?”

“He is.” The words are chipped and cold. Any temporary friendliness has vanished.

Joshua nods. “Thank you.” He attempts to walk past — and Soonyoung clears his throat. There’s something inherently unsettling about seeing someone in full uniform in the Mire with all the blasé of those who actually belong there.

“You know, when this is done, we’ll leave,” Soonyoung informs him, a hint of condescension to his tone. “We’ll go back to the Citadel.”

“Yes,” Joshua says. “I’m aware.”

“Are you, though?” Soonyoung says. He moves closer, lowering his voice. There’s a scar on his face, one that runs down the side of his mouth down to his chin. It’s an ugly thing, dark and messy, and if Joshua knows anything about ugly scars, it’s that more often than not, they’re a sign of survival. “Because I wonder if you are. The way you act is certainly as if we’ve arrived on a silver cloud especially for you, and I must make it very clear that is _not the case_. Jeonghan might falter — I will not. I have an Inquisitor to serve. He has put his trust in me and I will not break it.”

There’s another scar over the brow of his eye, lighter, older. His face is a living testament to the battles he’s won.

“I understand,” Joshua says. This is temporary. He’s already known that.

“Don’t get comfortable.” Soonyoung lowers his head, resumes cleaning his nails with the blunt edge of his dagger, a decisive note to Joshua that this conversation is over. Joshua makes no attempt to talk to him further, passing straight into the inn. It’s almost a kind of magnetism because while there’s about fifty people in this room alone, and the laughter is raucous and the air is thick with the smell of liquor, he sees Jeonghan instantly, blonde ponytail trailing down his shirt, sitting by himself, a look of contemplation upon his face. He moves his left hand as if writing in invisible ink on the table. It’s an old habit of his, something he does to clear his thoughts and it’s rather relieving to see that hasn’t changed. Joshua almost feels bad for interrupting.

“Jeonghan.”

He halts his writing, leaving his imaginary sentence forever unfinished. He blinks, confusion clouding his face first — and then a smile. “Joshua. Oh, I didn’t think I’d see you! This is a wonderful surprise.” He stands up, gesturing to the chair. There’s vivid delight that blooms in the curve of his cheeks. “Sit down, sit down please.”

Joshua shakes his head. “I’m not here for long,”

Pallas exists both in the form of Jeonghan’s physical sword and his stare. Joshua lowers himself down onto the chair. “That’s far more comfortable,” he says, and his glare eases itself. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“Not at all — I just came to return this,” he says, handing the cloak to him. Jeonghan appears disappointed for a moment but accepts it back.

“Thank you. I didn’t have a spare one. I used to, and then Soonyoung and I had to use it for kindling while on the road. Horribly cold night,” Jeonghan says. “And I must say, I feel rather naked with only half my uniform on.” He seems to consider wearing the cloak and then changes his mind, hanging it at the back of his chair. “Well, no point putting it on now.”

“Thank you very much for lending it to me,” Joshua says for lack of anything else.

“Are you feeling better?”

He was — but it was temporary. “I am, thank you for your concern. It’s really nothing serious.” That doesn’t count as lying. Joshua doesn’t tell anyone about the frost. His gaze drops down to Jeonghan’s hand where it curls around his glass. He knows there’s no point in staying any longer. He’s about to announce his intentions to leave when Jeonghan’s grip around the glass tightens.  

“I was joking earlier,” Jeonghan says, quite so suddenly, like the thread of thought was running away from him and he had to lurch forward to catch it. “I’m not— I haven’t been… involved.” He cringes at his own choice of words, but presses on. “Not to the degree that merits bragging, anyway.”

Joshua barely remembers the comment, and when he does, it’s unsettling. He didn’t want to be reminded that there were others that Jeonghan had been with, perhaps those he had loved. “Oh?”

“I just felt I should clarify,” Jeonghan says. “There’s not been anyone of any importance.”

Joshua can’t ignore the relief that floods through him. “I wasn’t particularly popular either. No one joins the Order of Witch Hunters because they want to get their dick wet.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Jeonghan says, unable to contain his laughter. “They spent a month trying to make that clear in our final year.”

It’s unprofessional, if nothing else. The witch hunters are an elite military organization composed of highly trained individuals, not common soldiers looking for a warm body for the night. It’s shoddy on the entire organization if the so-called dedicated investigators were peacocking around after dark.

“We had to reprimand one of my squadron mates a year or so back. Got some woman pregnant mid-investigation — and it was an important one. We were not happy at all. I hear he’s serving time as a permanent guard at the Citadel now, and frankly, he deserves it,” Jeonghan snorts.

Joshua frowns. “It’s just bad etiquette.” If you wanted to fool around while on duty, be intelligent about it. It’s what Joshua did, and he was certain it’s what every other hunter did before him.

“That’s what I’ve been saying. I wonder what happened to the poor child. Never even asked to be born.” Jeonghan speaks with such a detached tone, like he’s already severed himself from the situation. Joshua can’t help but wonder what exactly the ‘important investigation’ was for.

“They’ll certainly be with the witch hunters soon enough,” Joshua says. “That’s the policy after all.” He shrugs. It’s strange to talk so openly — but no one here even cares enough to eavesdrop.

Jeonghan gazes at him, head tilted to the side in confusion. His hair falls in his eyes and Joshua resists the urge to move it away. “Oh?”

It’s a policy Joshua is intimately acquainted with. “Children out of wedlock from witch hunters are committed to the Order at birth. I don’t think they _all_ attend the Academy, I’m sure some just work at the Citadel or on behalf of an Inquisitor but their lives are certainly promised.”

“Why?” Jeonghan asks.

He must have forgotten, Joshua realizes. “It’s a punishment and precaution, I would gather. You never know what curses are hiding in witch hunter bodies, and you’d rather not have that enter the general population. And perhaps on a less grim note, they might just be suited for the life.” And then Joshua pauses, looking away from Jeonghan. “It’s also a punishment, obviously. That’s what you get for breaking the rules. Your child gets sent away.”

Jeonghan is deep in thought, as if trying to sift through the fog of his own memories. “That sounds vaguely familiar. I can’t believe you still remember that, though. I’ve forgotten.”

“Well,” Joshua says. There’s a layer of armour being ripped off his skin. “It’s why I joined.”

He doesn’t hide his confusion. “What?”

“You know this, Jeonghan. My father was a witch hunter and he had a relationship with my mother and well, it wasn’t _marriage_ , so that’s what happened next…” Joshua trails off, “But you know this.”

They had this conversation before. Joshua knows that much. Remembers it was even more uncomfortable the first time around — but oh, how long ago that was.

“But, no, your mother let you attend, I’ve met her—,” Jeonghan doesn’t continue, head propped on his hands. His eyes are wide with horror.

He met her twice if Joshua’s memory serves him correctly. Once as children, not yet in the Academy. She liked him, then. Commented how much like his father he looked like. Joshua didn’t know much about the High Inquisitor, but knew he was enraptured at the sight of such golden hair.

Jeonghan met his mother again, then eight years later, the day they graduated. But that was such a busy day, they saw her for perhaps a few minutes, just had the briefest of conversations. Joshua does not blame Jeonghan for forgetting her — how can he, when he barely remembers her himself.

“Just because she let me go doesn’t mean it was a choice,” Joshua says. There’s no bitterness to his tone, no regret. Just facts. He tries to sort his own memories out. “It’s not like it bothers me, it’s just how things were.”

She had light brown hair and kind eyes. It was hard to discern specificities, hard to even remember her voice when she only used to speak the native tongue, the fluency of which has escaped Joshua a long time ago.

“I can’t believe I forgot,” Jeonghan mutters to himself. There’s shame hanging over him, in the way he curls in on himself, head down. He thinks, and Joshua lets him. It’s several moments later than Jeonghan speaks up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“It doesn’t matter, Jeonghan. I was promised from birth. I never considered what life would be like otherwise because it wasn’t an option, and it doesn’t bother me.” What else would he have done? What other life would have awaited for him? Joshua flashes Jeonghan a smile of reassurance. He doesn’t know why he says what he does next, except perhaps, he wanted to see if Jeonghan remembered something a bit more important. “Besides, you know we don’t care about where we came from.”

There’s a light that ignites itself in Jeonghan’s eyes.

He stares at Joshua for so long, it’s like he’s reliving eight years in the span of seconds, unrepressing the parts of his early life he tried to forget. Jeonghan arrived at the Academy on the wings of a dynasty of revered witch hunters and it ostracized him from the moment he landed. He never spoke about his family but it wouldn’t have mattered even if he did — everyone already knew his history, the legends of his mother and father, and the relations beyond.

Children are competitive and cruel, and Jeonghan with his sharp features and soft voice was the focus of attention for a long time. It was perhaps made worse by the their instructors, eager to see whether the heir would be as proficient as family before him, constantly crushing him under their heels. Joshua had witnessed this in careful detail, the manner in which even as child Jeonghan dedicated himself to his studies with a fervour unseen by anyone else.

Thinking back on it, Joshua could never come up with a decisive reason as to why he decided to extend his hand to the pariah that Jeonghan had become.

There were a few possibilities. They slept in the same dormitory. They were from the same hometown, had even seen each other before, though they had never spoken. It could have even been more superficial than that, a schoolboy crush as a result of his stunning hair — and beyond anything else, they were the only two who would stay behind after sword practise, even when their muscles ached, even when everyone left. He was the only one left to train with. It was logical.

Or perhaps it never was. It just happened as things do happen, as natural as the two moon rise at night. Regardless of what drove him to do so, Joshua sat next to him and asked, “Can we spar?” and Jeonghan accepted with a smile.

There’s a certain feeling of unity between them. Joshua knows they’re thinking of the same thing, reliving their shared memory, and while they certainly view it differently, the core remains the same. “You’re right. We don’t care about where we came from. That doesn’t matter,” Jeonghan agrees. There is no doubt in Jeonghan’s voice when he speaks, only conviction.

It did get easier as the years went by. Maturity increases as their student pool decreases. Far too many fail the rigorous training, but it seems that the two of them start to thrive and both shed the shackles of their respective families. Of course, what use do they have of families, when their nights and days are spent in the Academy at the Citadel, far from the town they lived in — when it comes down to it, all Jeonghan and Joshua could ever rely on was each other

So it doesn’t necessarily surprise Joshua that Jeonghan has purged the burden of his heritage from his mind, and consequently, the burden of Joshua’s lack thereof.

“You were such a good swordsman,” Jeonghan says after a moment.

“You’re better.”

Jeonghan purses his lips, considering carefully. “Forgive me for asking, but I’d rather ask you than look for myself, but what happened to your father?”

It would have been easy to look up when he returned to the Citadel. It’s nice that he didn’t. “Before I even joined the Academy, he died.” Hunters don’t have a long lifespan. These things happen.

Jeonghan pauses, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. He processes it carefully, and when he looks at Joshua again, the sincerity in his gaze floors him. “I’m so sorry, Joshua.”

“It wasn’t like I knew him particularly well to begin with. I don’t really need sympathy,” Joshua answers. It was so long ago. Some twenty years have passed. Any residual wounds have been long healed by time, — and he wasn’t even broken when he heard from the beginning. He remembers his mother was sad but Joshua himself just felt strangely empty.

“Perhaps I can empathize,” Jeonghan says softly.

Joshua stares in confusion. For a moment, he cannot comprehend it, surely something as monumental as the death of the most revered witch hunters in the land would spread — but then Joshua remembers, he lives in a swamp, and what little news passes rarely concerns the things he used to care about. “Your mother…?”

“My father,” Jeonghan corrects. He sips from his drink, steeling himself. He sounds detached. “He’s dying, that much is certain. As for when, that’s not really something that can be predicted, now can it?” Jeonghan’s voice goes quieter and quieter, like it’s words he never wants to say. “Most likely? Soon.”

Not for the first time, Joshua wishes he was like Seungkwan, that it was possible to remove all pain and suffering with just a touch of his hands. He’d do it now, he’d do it for Jeonghan, because oh, he must be hurting.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Joshua says. Whatever difficulties Jeonghan had with the burden of his name never changed the reality that he _idolized_ his father. The High Inquisitor was a title bestowed to the head of the entire Order, and it was one that’s burden dripped down to Jeonghan. Joshua wonders if it would be too much to allow his hand to stroke his shoulder, just a single point of contact, just a source of comfort. “I know he’s been a tremendous influence on your life.”

“He has,” and Jeonghan’s voice has gone strangely high-pitched. “It’s nothing unexpected. He is very old, after all. He’s the oldest surviving Inquisitor. He’s seen an entire generation of the Order birth and die.”

“Yes, but—”

“And he’s accomplished so much as well. Him and my mother both. He’s in a hundred tomes about the Order. He’ll be remembered forever.”

This is a defense mechanism, and Joshua knows the bolts that hold it together. Jeonghan distances himself, like he always does when it’s too much. But distance will not keep the reality from coming to pass.

“Jeonghan,” Joshua says, and this time he does hold Jeonghan’s shoulder, tracing circles with his hand. “All of those things are true. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s your father. It doesn’t hurt because you’re losing a high-ranking member of the Order, but that you’re losing your own father.”

It’s too loud here, but it’s better like that. Makes it easy to maintain some idea of distance between him and Jeonghan. If they were alone, Joshua isn’t sure what he’d do — but he knows he’s always been bad at watching Jeonghan in pain.

“I was with him before I came here.” Jeonghan’s eyes are frighteningly wide. “It was the first time I’ve gone home in years, and what a dismal time it was to return. I sometimes wish I never went back at all.”

“How was he?” Joshua asks carefully. Jeonghan appears so well composed, so structurally perfect but Joshua can’t help but feel that the second he removes his hand, the facade might crumble.

“Bedridden, as he’s been for months.” Jeonghan exhales. “He knows he’s going to die soon, and he told me very pointedly not to embarass myself with tears. In his words, he’s lived ‘a long and good life’, and he knows that he’s served the Order with every drop of blood in his body.”

Joshua squeezes his shoulder tighter. There’s something uncomfortable in his throat, but this isn’t about him. “It must have been nice to talk to him.”

“Of course not, it’s my father. He’s never been a good conversational partner,” and now Jeonghan actually smiles a little to himself, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrived. “He told me instead of mourning him, I could make him proud. He wants me to be inducted as Inquisitor before he dies.”

Joshua’s hand drops. He tries to contain himself but he can’t, not when the very word stirs up a visceral reaction inside of him. It’s said that to be an Inquisitor is to be as close to a God as possible in this lifetime, to have complete and utter mastery of the world that surrounds them, to command power, respect. It’s leadership unlike any other, it’s an _honour_. To be an Inquisitor is to hold dominion over life and death.

But, oh, it’s not given lightly.

“Joshua?” Jeonghan gazes at him. The inn is loud around them, but it’s all meaningless noise. “It’s…”

The realization is sickening. “It’s why you’re here. You want the mage so that you can get the title,” Joshua exhales. Seungkwan’s life in exchange for rings, for quarters in the Citadel, for an honorific. This was an investigation carefully chosen. This was a witch hunt for the sole purpose of Jeonghan’s advancement. 

There’s tiredness that radiates off Jeonghan. “Joshua, this is my life. It shouldn’t surprise you. This is the ultimate goal of every single person in the Order and I… I could do it while my father is still alive.”

He’s not denying it.

“Jeonghan…” Joshua says, pointlessly. It’s not as if Jeonghan’s name has any weight in his mouth.

“My record is _flawless_ , I’ve worked twice as hard for half as long. I could be the youngest Inquisitor in history.”

He has it planned out.

He has a path set in gold and Seungkwan’s death will be the final step to his ascension, to his legacy.

Someone bumps into their table as they walk past, and maybe it’s a good thing how imperfect this moment is, in a raucous inn with sticky floor that reeks of wine and sweat. It reminds Joshua that all of this is temporary. That as wonderful as it to see Jeonghan with his silky blonde hair, with his sly smile, with his voice like the songs of birds that he never hears in this swamp, that’s it’s all _temporary_. That he and Jeonghan may have once viewed the other as half of their soul, but now are on opposites of a glacier that fractures in a way that can never be reconnected.

“Joshua, don’t look at me like that,” Jeonghan says, implores, hands twisting in themselves. “Like I’m your enemy.”

“But that’s what you are, aren’t you? That’s what I am to you as well. I’m just a defected witch hunter, and you’re the next Inquisitor.”

Jeonghan’s eyes flutter closed, like he’s been struck. Like it hurts. Like it’s hurting. “You’re not wrong, but can’t we just forget about that, for a few brief moments? Can we not just be Joshua and Jeonghan again?”

It’s easy for Jeonghan to forget. He’s not the one who faces losing everything — and not for the first time. Jeonghan’s life would pass by relatively unscathed by Joshua’s passing — and Joshua is not foolish enough to believe he could take on the entire Order, not when he doesn’t even think he can take on this one man, this single witch hunter.

Did they have to send the one hunter in the world who knew how to bleed his heart without needing knives?

“Jeonghan, this is just going to make it worse.” The end is unavoidable, there’s no future for either of them, not together, not as there once was. “We can’t be like we used to be anymore.”

“Humour me, then,” Jeonghan says with no trace of laughter. “Just for a little bit. Just enough to make up for some lost years already passed and the lost years that are still to come.”

Joshua’s arms are crossed like it’s a physical shield between them. This doesn’t matter to Jeonghan. His hands reach across the table, slipping into the space between Joshua’s arm and his shirt, and it feels too much like Jeonghan knows, that he’s trying to break the barrier that exists between them.

“Joshua.” His voice is plaintive. Jeonghan doesn’t beg. He’s been raised too noble for that, but he’s here, arms sprawled out on a dirty table, gazing at Joshua like he’s the rope to save him. “Joshua, I’m not asking for much. Let’s just enjoy what little time we have. Forget the rest of the world. Didn’t you enjoy when we were hunting together? When we sparred again? When it's just us— not about witches or hunters, but about you and me.”

And then, because Jeonghan knows just how to work Joshua like he does everything else, with that silvertongue of his, he says in the language they’ve both almost forgotten, “ _Please_.”

“You have a job to do,” Joshua says hopelessly., unable to pull himself away.

“And I’ll do it, but please, don’t make me come here and then turn me away,” Jeonghan says. Jeonghan doesn’t beg — then why does it seem like he is? “Why don’t you believe me when I say that I missed you?”

Perhaps by divine intervention more than anything else, Joshua is spared from answering. At first he thinks it’s Soonyoung returning, or perhaps a waitress who comes to their table, but it’s neither, it’s a young woman, barely out of her teens who approaches them, eyes wide, hands fidgeting.

Jeonghan immediately disconnects himself from Joshua’s grip and resumes his poise with speed too fast to be real. “Hello there,” he addresses her, not unkindly.

The girl hesitates, eyes switching from Joshua to Jeonghan and then to her hands. “I hope I’m not interrupting, Lord Hunter,” she says carefully. “But could I burden you for a moment of your time?”

“By all means, go ahead,” Jeonghan says, and gestures for her to continue talking. The Jeonghan of Joshua’s memory had absolutely despised talking to the general public. It was a result of his own prejudice, of course, having been raised among the nobility by blood and rank left him with a certain standard, and he did not take kindly to those training exercises in peasant villages.

“I saw your banner,” she says. “It’s the Order of Witch Hunters, right?”

“I serve it to my dying day.” He says it without missing a beat. Rehearsed, like everything else. “Is something wrong? Or do you perhaps have some information that could be of use to us?”

Joshua sits, unable to do much but witness as Jeonghan effortlessly fades into his own uniform and becomes less of the man, and more of the job.

“I’m not from here, so no, I’m sorry, I can’t,” she answers, apologetic. “But I just wanted to voice my gratitude. I’ve been travelling to see my sister who lives in the lowlands, and I’ve had your Order guide me the entire time. I rarely got the chance to ever give my thanks, but I am, tremendously so.”

A sheen of pride slides across Jeonghan’s face. “It is an honour to serve you, my Lady,” Jeonghan says, and in a swift movement, he stands up and bows at her feet. She stares back, confused. Her expression is mirrored in Joshua. Jeonghan rises with a smile on his face.

“Thank you, hunters,” she says. Now she looks at Joshua, and the phrase, that familiar phrase is still stitched into the fabric of his mind, and when he replies, it’s a reflex. It’s what he’s been taught to say, it’s what he has said for so many years, he doesn’t even think it through.

“We will continue to serve you until only the embers of the Order remain,” Joshua says and then snaps his mouth shut attempting to contain his own shock. Jeonghan’s eyes encompass absolute bewilderment.

The girl bows her head and disappears to her table but Joshua barely regards her, unable to look away from Jeonghan.

“Accident,” is all Joshua can defend himself with. There’s a sickness uncoiling in his stomach.

“That was the exact phrase,” Jeonghan says.

“We were made to say it constantly. It’s not surprising that I remember it,” Joshua says. He feels unclean. Not just his mouth, but his entire body has been soiled. His skin doesn’t feel right, doesn’t fit properly. 

Jeonghan regards Joshua with interest for a long moment. “Very well.” He raises his arm, signalling to the waitress, who gazes at his rings with interest. “The woman in the corner. Short hair. Wearing a skirt. Is she staying the night?”

“Jeonghan, are you—” Joshua begins.

“Quiet,” Jeonghan hisses to Joshua, and turns back to the waitress. “I have no interest in disturbing her sleep for any reason. I’d like to pay for her room if that’s alright,” he says, and reaches into one of the pockets of his coat, and deposits several gold coins into her hand. The waitress nods. She points at the drink on Jeonghan’s table, signalling a refill but he shakes his head.

Jeonghan notices Joshua’s curiosity.

“The Order takes care of those who believe in its justice. You would know that,” Jeonghan says and he’s right. It is one of those rehearsed lines. But it never really meant anything. It was a metaphor, more than anything else — after all, the Order exists rather independently of those who choose to accept or reject it. It’s one of the problems with it.

Jeonghan takes a sip of his drink for a moment more. Joshua never caught the name, but it seems to be warm and Jeonghan exhales with a smile on his face.

“If it was just us, I’d take off the uniform, you know,” Jeonghan says. “Just for a little while. Just long enough to talk.”

There’s no innuendo behind it, and yet Joshua still feels his face burn. He opens his mouth to reply when this time, he _sees_ Soonyoung return, and the scowl on his face becomes more pronounced when he notices Joshua still present. “Are you quite done here? We need to ride further into town. We’re just wasting time now.”

“There’s no point exhausting ourselves, Soonyoung,” Jeonghan says. He makes no move to get up.

Soonyoung regards Joshua like the very sight of him is something foul. “I’m certain you can catch up with your friend later.”

Joshua has no desire to stay a moment longer, not under his imperious gaze. He steps out from the chair. He nods at Jeonghan, unsure of how to say goodbye.

“I’ll see you soon?” Jeonghan asks. “Please.”

Joshua regards Soonyoung’s presence and speaks in his native language. “What’s left to say to each other?”

 

 

 

Joshua allows himself to miss Jeonghan. It’s ironic, really, because as of right now, Jeonghan is closer than he’s been in the last few years. Right now, he’s just a few buildings away, less than five minutes walk, two minutes at a run, and what a change that is from when he was continents away, when even their thoughts were too far to reach, where even the eyelashes they wished upon would not blow far enough. Right now, if Joshua so wanted to, he could knock down that door, could walk all the way up to him, and run his fingers through that cascade of blonde hair.

But he doesn’t. He’s traded away a tower, glory and purpose for a swamp and a witch, and it’s always been _enough_ , but just for once, Joshua wants to indulge in his selfishness. Was fine with losing everything else, but would have wanted one exception — would have wanted Jeonghan, and still does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should be an interesting face arriving next chapter


	5. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone for sticking around so far! 💕

Joshua made his home in the aftermath. There is, of course, the aftermath of the Magistrate’s death, and that’s the toppling tower that he could never rebuild, but before that, years before that, there was the first time he faced the realization his life is lived in the ruins. From the moment he graduated from the Academy, he’s been devoted to a war that’s already been won.

Fort Westwind has been home to more conflicts than citizens. The tale’s been told a thousand times, of the mages that lived there in the college, under strict regulation and a tight leash — and the subsequent rebellion, that ignited across the city. Crusades have never been so fashionable, and the resulting team dispatched left ruins behind. Joshua knows this story well, had to be briefed before he arrived and one thing became abundantly clear: the war was already over. Lives were lost, blood spilled down the granite steps, the college spire collapsed, and Joshua wasn’t there for any of it. How could he? He was sixteen years old and learning how to spin with a sword in his hand. The history was already written. By the time he gets there, he’s nineteen, graduated, and nursing an ache in his heart that was almost physical for the Citadel that he called home. Or, at least, for the friends he left behind in it.

The affectionate insult was “clean-up crew”. What books and ballads fail to mention is how _messy_ a region is after war, how tumultuous the tensions are, how conflicts spurt out like embers from a dying flame. How rebellion lives in cramped corners, thrives even. And hunters don’t know how to pull out weeds, not when it’s easier to set fire to the whole field.

Joshua could never get the soot out from under his nails.

He was built in the aftermath, and it was the visiting Inquisitor Jihoon who regarded him in surprise, remarking that someone so young and talented shouldn’t be wasted in this ghost town, not when he’s so promising. He had said, bestowing his gratitude upon Joshua like a crown, that in the future there was to be a visiting Magistrate coming to preside over the judgement of a coven, that Joshua should escort him, perhaps there’s place for him in the cold Tundra.

And then, when that went wrong, he made a home in the aftermath of that, trying not to be terrified of Seungkwan, trying not to be scared of his own shadow at night, teeth clenched to stop himself shivering.

And then there’s this, whatever this is, this transitionary period where Jeonghan is just there, gorgeous and untouchable. And when he leaves, however he leaves, because he _will_ leave, he might just shatter Joshua in the process.

And Joshua will have to try and live in the aftermath of that, but he can only be crushed so many times until the pieces are too small to put back together.

 

 

At the first sight of Wonwoo’s curly hair through the peephole of his front door, Joshua can’t contain the sigh of relief that escapes him.

“This is a welcome surprise,” Joshua opens the door, guiding him inside. He isn't quite able to shake off the residual paranoia that he’s being observed, and shuts the door quickly, the sound causing Wonwoo to wince. Joshua offers up a smile in apology. “I didn’t expect you’d visit.”

Risky, certainly, but Joshua is grateful for the company.

“It’s only been about two weeks since I’ve been in here but I swear it feels like years. Every morning from my workshop, I just look up at the attic and I wonder what Seungkwan is doing,” Wonwoo says.

“Most likely sleeping or knocking over glass bottles.” The process of making tea for Wonwoo during his visits is so ingrained in Joshua’s mind that he doesn’t even bother asking, just periodically disappears into the kitchen to check on the kettle, decanting the tea leaves.

“Aren’t you worried he’ll hear you?” Wonwoo says.

“Not at all. Do you know how many cuts I’ve had because of glass-related fractures in the past week? Besides, I’m certain he’s sleeping now,” Joshua pauses as he passes the mirror hanging in the living room, tries to smooth down the stray hairs that spark out of control. It’s not that Wonwoo would particularly care — but Joshua would at least try and seem the least bit presentable. “Do you want to go up and see him?”

“In a bit, I’ll just finish my tea first,” Wonwoo says. He accepts the cup from Joshua and settles in on the couch and for a moment it all feels so normal, so much like what it usually is like, that it seems like any moment Seungkwan will come downstairs, beaming, smelling faintly like sulphur.

But that’s not how things are, that’s not the way this world works, and as long as Jeonghan is here, Seungkwan is stuck up in the attic. It’s not all that bad, really, Wonwoo fixed up the place quite nicely. Just a little cramped.

“While he isn’t here,” Wonwoo begins, his fingers toying with the earring that dangles down, his most obvious tell of nervousness, “I wanted to ask if you had any new information on the hunters.”

“No,” Joshua says. “Not at all, I haven’t even seen them since a week ago. As far as I know, they were investigating the surrounding area.” And then he adds: “Have you heard anything?”

Wonwoo purses his lips. They’re wet from the tea. “Your friend visited me.”

Joshua attempts to keep his face blank. “Jeonghan? Why?”

He puts the cup down, and looks up at the ceiling before moving closer. “Crossbow bolts.” His voice is restrained, trapped behind the waterfall of his thoughts. “Wanted to know if I could make them for him.”

While Joshua wouldn’t call it innocuous, it certainly wasn’t as bad as his immediate thoughts. Crossbow bolts were logical. He used almost all of them showing off. “Can you?”

“I’m trying to,” Wonwoo says with a cautious frown. “The weapon’s custom made, and ethically I don’t exactly feel too happy about making bolts.” He sighs. “But I’d just do what they ask of me rather than stir up a fuss. That’s not why I wanted to talk to you, though.” Flecks of iron are gathered under his nails. “Jeonghan asked me where he could find a doctor.”

“The Mire doesn’t have a doctor,” Joshua says, faintly. 

“It doesn’t seem like it’s anything serious, but I think the hunters are looking for some kind of remedy. One of them might be sick.” 

The time Wonwoo gives Joshua to reply doesn’t do anything to soothe him. “There’s no doctor anywhere near here. The Mire has a herbalist, yes, but he’s not just a herbalist, the Mire has…” he gazes to the ceiling, “Seungkwan.”

Wonwoo exhales. “Exactly.”

If Jeonghan is asking around for a doctor, it would just take one ignorant resident of the Mire to slip up. To just casually mention the sunny-haired healer who could produce the most miraculous of cures.

“I told him the facts, that we don’t have a doctor here and he’d have to go to the Ramparts, but he seemed extremely unhappy with that suggestion.” Tension is evident on Wonwoo’s shoulders. He’s holding something back.

“Is there something else?” Joshua asks, fearing his answer.

He tugs on his earring. “Joshua, you’re the most knowledgeable here.”

“On hunters?”

“On healing.” Joshua’s face heats up, and he opens his mouth to reject the assertion but Wonwoo continues. “You’re Seungkwan’s accomplice, apprentice, whatever he calls you.”

Generally Seungkwan just calls him “Joshua”, followed by, “can you get me some more citrus peels, I feel like a bath”. He’s hardly some sort of medicine man.

“The fact remains that you are the only person besides Seungkwan who knows what herbs he puts into his potions. While I know that some of it is magic, if you can suggest even a _temporary_ solution to whatever problem they’re having, it could stop them from having to start asking around.” Wonwoo’s voice is even softer now. “I only bring this up because I don’t know what else to do.”

“Wonwoo, I’m not a _healer_ ,” Joshua says helplessly. Quite the opposite actually.

“I don’t think anyone in this Mire would intentionally betray Seungkwan. But those two are bloodhounds. They just need the vaguest hint that there might be someone with magic here, and that could just be what they need to find him.”

“I’m supposed to knock on their door and ask if they’re under the weather?” Joshua’s finding it very difficult to maintain a sense of calm. “You know I just do what Seungkwan tells me, right?”

“Which is more than anyone else can say,” Wonwoo says. “I’m just concerned about the worst case scenario. What if one of them dies here, what then? We’ll have a whole inquisition marching here, thinking that this witch is able to kill people from thought alone!” Wonwoo clamps his mouth shut. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, Joshua.”

It’s so quintessentially Wonwoo to immediately apologize, to notice those delicate facial movements that betray his emotions. It makes Wonwoo quite possibly the most caring person in the world.

“I’m not trying to make you do anything. But I’m worried, Joshua. I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you scared of witch hunters, Wonwoo?” Joshua asks, suddenly struck.

Wonwoo blinks. “Isn’t everyone?” he says. “Aren’t you?”

And he is. He knows he is, just the sight of the insignia is enough to cause his heart rate to quicken, in preparation of running. It’s still something else to see Wonwoo confirm it, without hesitation. He fears them like a darkness in the night. Joshua fears them like knowing what the darkness hides.

“Of course I am. But you’re right,” Joshua swallows. “There’s no one else even on speaking terms with them, I… It’s fine. I’ll sort it out. I’ll talk to him. Them.”

“Only if it’s safe for you, Joshua,” Wonwoo says. “Don’t do anything that will put you in danger.”

There’s a certain level of acceptance that Joshua feels. The problem he had was thinking that he could pretend he was unaffected by Jeonghan’s return. How ridiculous that seems? It would be easier to purge the frost from his bones than attempt to remove the traces of Jeonghan across his life. If Joshua understands that this will hurt, he will be better able to survive through it.

Intoxication held no allure for Joshua. He drank little, he smoked rarely, and fucked even less. But a conversation with Jeonghan just brings up that old vice of his, and he already knows that this will end to no one’s happiness, but he can’t stop himself craving his company anymore than he can tear the moons from the sky.

How much longer is he going to sit in his house with Seungkwan just above, and pretend that he’s okay with what goes on around him?

His days have passed by in tumultuous hours, forgotten instantly, all ultimately meaningless until he sees Jeonghan again. And now he has a reason.

 

 

“Jeonghan? Never heard of him,” Mark shakes his head. Half of his attention is occupied by a barmaid attempting to steal some pocket change out of a passed out patron. “Yeri, no, you can’t, I don’t care that he hasn’t tipped you.” He looks up. “Are you sure he’s staying here?”

“I _know_ he is,” Joshua says, sighing. “Jeonghan. Long hair. Blonde.”

“Sorry, can you just move a little to the right?” Mark asks, attempting to look past Joshua’s shoulder. “Excuse me, Jeno, you did _not_ pay, hand in your key.” He turns back. “Right, sorry, again, it’s a bit busy today. You said your friend was an elf, right?”

“No, I said he’s blonde, he has long-” Joshua breaks off in frustration when Mark moves his arm and spills ink all across the front of his shirt. Mark squeaks in despair. “It’s the witch hunter. Where is the witch hunter staying?”

His fingers are currently right below his nose, sniffing the black stain — and Mark freezes. “Oh. Them.”

“Yes.”

Mark wipes his hands on the desk, leaving imprints all over the wood. “Upstairs. Last two doors on the right. I would knock first if I were you. They aren’t very friendly.” Mark seems to think about adding something else to his sentence, but a glass drops at the bar and he’s gone, swearing to himself as he examines the scene of the crime.

Joshua moves up the stairs quickly, manoeuvring himself around a drunk sprawled out on the filthy floor. A dozen different lives sound down the corridor: a baby hoarse from crying, shoes clacking on the floor with the rhythm of a dancer, the high feminine voice of someone singing amidst the splashing of bath water, a man arguing and then storming out, pushing past Joshua on the way. And then at the end, there’s two doors in absolute silence.

Joshua doesn’t allow the cowardice in him to win, and knocks on the first door, frankly not prepared in the slightest if he ends up running into Soonyoung instead of Jeonghan. Ideally, neither of them would be here and he could just slip a letter under the door—

“Come in,” a familiar voice calls.

Joshua turns the door handle.

With only a single candle illuminating the room of the inn, Jeonghan’s hair glitters in shadow. It hangs loosely over his shoulders like an ocean of gold, and Joshua finally understands how long it is, how incredibly luscious the silken strands are. Joshua temporarily forgets how to breathe, enraptured.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan says, blinking rapidly. “I wasn’t expecting you. I thought… I thought you were Soonyoung.”

“Not at all,” is all Joshua says. For the first time since he’s been here, Jeonghan has all but shrugged off the uniform. Gone is the thick black cloak, the tight-fitting waistcoat — the only thing he’s wearing is the white shirt underneath it all, the sleeves rolled up, exposing the pale skin of his arms.

His throat feels dry.

“Clearly,” Jeonghan says. He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I do apologize for…” he gestures to himself, “this, but I wasn’t expecting company. If you’d give me a moment, I could put on my cloak or something.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” He sounds less affected than he actually is.

“That’s good to hear. I hardly want to bother with unnecessary formalities when it’s you.” Like this, there’s no trace of the Order on him. He’s just any other man in any other inn in any other part of the world.

The door’s still open. The woman from four doors down continues to sing. She’s off-tune. Sounds happy.

Jeonghan trails his fingers down the side of his hair. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Joshua?” he asks with a smile.

There’s a reason he’s here. Joshua tries to clear his mind of the fog that’s settling over his thoughts. “I wanted to talk to you. I was speaking to the blacksmith and he mentioned you were there, you asked about a doctor—”

Jeonghan’s eyes widen. “Ah. Yes, okay, not—” he seems to think better of talking, and rushes forward, pulling Joshua inside and shutting the door behind him. And then they’re the only ones in the room, which doesn’t sound too strange, but to Joshua, the universe doesn’t exist outside of the confines of these four walls. Jeonghan’s grip on his arm is firm.

“Can’t have Soonyoung coming in and hearing that we’re talking about him,” Jeonghan attempts to explain, swallowing.

“Of course,” Joshua says. He becomes abundantly aware of the physical differences between them, how much bigger Jeonghan is, his body casting a shadow against Joshua’s. He’s very close. He can smell soap.

“He’s in the next room. Bathing, I think.”

“I see.” Joshua’s eyes fixate on the trail of Jeonghan’s veins up his arm. A part of him wants to run his fingers up the path. Trapped against the door, Joshua cannot move at all — and Jeonghan’s position has not changed either. Joshua looks up at him, eyebrow carefully raised.

“Sorry,” Jeonghan says, and takes two steps back. He pulled his hand off of Joshua’s arm like it was on fire. There might be some truth to that, the room feels too warm like it’s recently been lit. “Yes. I was at the blacksmith this morning. I need to see a doctor. He told me that there wasn’t any but surely he’s joking,” Jeonghan shakes his head, “there can’t _not_ be a doctor here?”

Joshua attempts to sound diplomatic. “Herbalism is much more prevalentin the Mire.”

“Plants?” Jeonghan says distastefully.

“Plants,” Joshua agrees.

Jeonghan adjusts his collar, unbuttoning the top. “Damn, it’s hot in here. The windows don’t work. Think they’re bolted shut, but that would be ridiculous, surely?”

“Mark’s worried that people jump out of them and don’t pay their bills,” Joshua says, and delights at the mixture of amusement and perplexion upon his face.

“Swamp people are the fucking weirdest.” Jeonghan fans himself. “Right, yes, back to the matter at hand. Are there really no doctors here? What does someone do when they’re sick here? Crawl into a pond and wait for the ghouls to eat them?”

Joshua maintains a neutral expression.

“What exactly is the problem?” Joshua asks. “I’ve learnt a lot about herbs from… my time here. I might be able to help.”

Jeonghan pauses. “Really?”

“Are you doubting me?” Joshua says, beginning to feel offended.

“Well, no, it’s just a little odd. Surely you can agree, oh, okay—” Jeonghan pouts, “don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t meant to be offensive. I’m sorry.” Jeonghan holds out his hands in surrender, and it’s only now that Joshua notices the only remnant of the Order still on his person: the three rings that enclose the middle finger of his left hand.

“Why do you need a doctor?”

Jeonghan inhales. “It’s Soonyoung more than me, but I am not unaffected. We can only assume that at some point during our hunting trip we encountered _something_ that doesn’t quite agree with us.”

“In what way?” Joshua asks, gazing at him curiously. There’s no outward trauma, no physical ailments that scar Jeonghan’s pristine face.

Jeonghan swallows before reaching up to the buttons of his shirt, and he unties two of them. Joshua doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Jeonghan’s fingers stop. He pulls apart the fabric like the petals of a flower, and reveals his collarbone, and for a moment, it’s blinding jealousy. It looks like the kind of marks left by the mouths of lovers, and Joshua isn’t sure of much else besides the rush of blood in his ears.

But then he steps closer, and no, it’s not that all. Perhaps position wise, certainly, but those blemishes are not made from pleasure. They’re a dark, mottled red and they look painful, stains upon his skin.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Jeonghan says, exhaling. “It’s all over Soonyoung. Neither of us wanted to tell the other and we spent half the week in mild agony.”

“It hurts,” Joshua observes. He moves a step closer. “It’s some sort of allergic reaction.”

“It was worse a few days ago. It’s starting to ease off for me. Can’t say the same for _him_ next door.” Jeonghan’s hands clench into fists at his side. “It’s frustrating. I told him if it was that bad we could just take the day trip to the Western Ramparts but he refuses to go, said he’d rather die than see his Inquisitor when he’s looking like that. His Inquisitor has literally burned people’s faces off, I’m certain he wouldn’t care about a few spots, but I’ve given up trying to understand him.”

Jeonghan gazes up from his rant as if he forgot Joshua was listening. “That was not supposed to happen. I’m sorry. It’s just been one problem after another ever since we got here, and the last thing I needed was to wake up with hives.”

Joshua can’t help but wonder if Jeonghan needs more than just a salve, that perhaps just have someone to talk to that he doesn’t absolutely hate would help. “I can help. I can’t say for sure what plant caused it, but I’m relatively certain I know what to help. If you can give me a day, I’m sure I can ride into the swamp and find some.”

Jeonghan nods. “I just need to pack and let Soonyoung know and then we can ride. I do appreciate this.”

There is a distinct pause. “Oh. I hadn’t thought you’d come with. You don’t need to, it’s not difficult.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Joshua,” Jeonghan says, snorting. “I’m not going to make you fetch us plants, you’re not my errand boy.” He pauses, looking around the room as if there was someone else present, unwilling to fixate his gaze on Joshua alone. “No, it’s fine, I’ll go with you. Besides, how were you going to get there? You don’t have a horse.”

Joshua hadn’t thought of that. He had become so accustomed to walking everywhere, he was most likely just going to strap on his boots.

“Were you going to _walk_?”

Joshua purses his lips. “Maybe.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. Well, there we go, more reason for me to go with.” He considers for a moment. “I think Levi misses you as well. She’ll probably be grateful to see you again.”

He hadn’t meant to get so attached to Jeonghan’s horse, but the thought of seeing her again fills Joshua’s heart. “Oh, what a good girl.”

“Can you meet me out in front in half an hour? I’ll bring Soonyoung’s horse with me. He’s big but well-mannered, and that’s more than I can say for Soonyoung.”

He doesn’t see any way in which anything he says dissuades Jeonghan from accompanying him. Nodding, he turns to leave but hesitates, glancing at the mirror. The other sleeve slips from Jeonghan’s shoulder, and the skin there is unmarred, nothing disrupting the sharp, pale curve of his clavicle. Seemingly without thinking, Jeonghan runs his hand across his neck, the span of his chest as if mapping out uncharted lands the day before the voyage. Joshua can’t remove his gaze, transfixed.

When he looks up in the mirror, he sees dark eyes meeting his own.

“Joshua?” Jeonghan’s voice is low. Curious. Dangerous.

Fingers continue running up and down the river rapids of his skin. Joshua wants to replace them with his own.

“I’ll see you outside.” Joshua slams the door behind him.

 

 

Joshua remembers the day he wrapped his uniform up.

He had packed away the weapons earlier, in that chest. The blacksmith had given it to Seungkwan to store ingredients, but Seungkwan had seen the way Joshua despaired over where to put his weapons, unwilling to burn it, gifting him with the ownership. And Joshua was grateful. Incredibly so. There was a kind of exhilaration to be felt to turn a sword so useless, his Anima, to lock it in a chest where it could hurt no one, to take the power out of it. To turn back on violence.

But the uniform was something different. The uniform was his cloak, his rings, the things that didn’t hurt anyone at all, they were his identity. He could never be stripped bare while he had it, it was the last line of defense.  Joshua wasn’t used to the person he looked like without the cloak. He looked smaller. He felt smaller.

At the beginning, he didn’t want to put it away. Didn’t have to.

The cloak could just dangle from the cupboards without needing to be spoken about, could just be there as an afterthought. That maybe if Joshua realized what a mistake he made, he could just walk out, grab the cloak and step back to the Citadel like he never left. He knew he wouldn’t. But he thought about it often, so often.

There’s a hundred uniforms just like this, but this is _his_. This is his uniform with the mark of the Order, he earned this, he worked so hard, he can’t just wrap it away like a dirty secret.

But he saw the way Seungkwan would look at it, and decided the possibility of return wasn’t worth Joshua’s actual reality. So he packed it away. Seungkwan smiled a lot more after that day.

 

 

Jeonghan looks good in his uniform. Almost as good as he looks without it.

The cloak casts a dark shadow across him, and when they’re just illuminated by moonlight, he looks like the kind of mythical rider of legend. He urges Levi ahead, and Joshua keeps finding himself distracted. Had he been riding a lesser horse, he’s certain he would have been gone off path a long time ago, but no, Soonyoung’s stallion is a loyal and intelligent creature.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan calls. There’s a strange element of familiarity to this, like it’s just the two of them repeating drills in the Academy.

“I'm behind you,” he says, tugging on the reins of his horse.

Jeonghan clears his throat. “Joshua, I see something strange in the distance.”

“Strange, how?” Joshua asks. He didn’t bring a sword. He didn’t think he had to. He assumed he’d be protected with Jeonghan next to him.

“It’s…” Jeonghan falters. “It’s glowing. Like magic.”

“Glowing?” Joshua urges his horse faster. “That doesn’t sound right.” Seungkwan was in the attic, it can’t be him — but what else? What else glows besides magic?

“Joshua, let me lead,” Jeonghan demands, their horses galloping next to each other. “I’m armed. You aren’t.”

“No,” Joshua says, surprising himself with his firmness. “I live here. I'm better suited to the terrain. Pull back.”

He thinks Jeonghan is going to decline, or perhaps ignore him altogether. Levi can race faster than Joshua could ever hope to. But Jeonghan doesn’t. He pulls on the reins and his horse slows down, lets Joshua overtake.

Seconds would not make a meaningful difference in halting Jeonghan’s actions if it was magic, but the lead gives Joshua an opportunity to survey the area, attempt to discern the cause before swords are drawn. The glow is positively luminous, shimmering up and down like the scales of a snake.

Joshua contains his sigh in relief as the illumination reveals itself. “Don’t worry, Jeonghan. It’s not magic.”

Doubt is evident in his tone. “What do you mean?”

“Dismount and I’ll show you.”

Jeonghan’s eyebrows are raised after he jumps off Levi, stroking her once before leaving her. “Do I need to take out my sword?”

“Not at all,” Joshua says, and he starts to laugh. “Stop doubting me. Come on.” He holds out his hand for a moment, and then thinks better of it. He’s grateful for the darkness. It gives him a vague hope Jeonghan didn’t see that.

“The ground’s wet here,” Jeonghan notes, his words punctuated by the loud squelching of his boots.

“We’re near a lake,” Joshua says. “Be careful, the water level is uneven.”

“I’m far more worried about the unexplained glow than if my trousers get wet, but the concern is touching, Joshua, my tailor will thank you profusely.”

Jeonghan’s answer lies a few steps away. The clearing they emerge in has the low hanging juniper trees that define the swamp’s landscape, the reeds that point up to the moonlight but it’s the lake that draws them nearer. Water pulsates an ethereal and illuminating blue.

“I don’t understand,” Jeonghan murmurs. “Why is the water…”

“It’s not the water. It’s the fish,” Joshua says. “They glow.”

They glow. The beauty lies in the simplistic reality. Joshua peers down the edge of the lake, and his glee cannot be hidden. He’s seen it years earlier, but that doesn’t take away the mysticism of it - it’s even better than the poor imitation his memory conjured. Fish swim around in perpetual circles but their scales, their scales glow, they shimmer, they _shine_. It’s blue, but to look deeper is to realize it’s not just blue. Shades of indigo, of cerulean, of navy and of midnight all blur and shine together.

Jeonghan drops to his knees. His fingers skim the water. “How is this _real_?” His mouth is agape, his face washed with shock.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Joshua says, grinning. He kneels as well, careful to root himself firmly, not wanting the loose soil to push him in the water. “I wish I understood how they work.”

His voice is muted. “Do you have any idea?”

Joshua considers. “I imagine it’s how the fish signal to each other.”

Fondness runs across Jeonghan’s face. “Oh. That’s _amazing_.”

“You think so?”

“Of course!” Jeonghan’s face blooms. “They make these colours and they glow and it’s because they just want to talk to each other.”

“Exactly that,” Joshua says and he doesn’t realize how broadly he’s smiling until it’s reflected in Jeonghan’s face. There’s never a time where Jeonghan isn’t a vision of the divine, but this is a new facet, the way blue light frames his face. The corners of his eyes twinkle in the hue. He looks beautiful. Joshua almost tells him.

“The swamp isn’t what you expected,” Joshua ends up saying.

“You were absolutely right. I can’t believe this Joshua, I’ve been to half the world but I’ve never seen anything like this.” Jeonghan’s voice is twinkled with wonder. Joshua savours this moment of triumph. “It’s beautiful.”

Jeonghan traces patterns in the surface of the water with his fingertips, delighting in the way in which the fish scatter. The glow pulsates and shakes as the creatures dart across the lake, and throughout it, his smile only widens. This is not something that either of them have experienced very often. Joshua had some pleasing although indistinct memories of youth, but Jeonghan’s had his nose pressed to the grindstone since birth. While Joshua ran around wheatfields as a precocious youth, Jeonghan remained in austere studying.  Perhaps that’s why it’s so foreign to see childlike joy displayed on Jeonghan’s face as he splashes around the water.

“It is, isn’t it?” Joshua says.

A strand of Jeonghan’s hair falls forward. Joshua curls it around his finger before tucking it behind Jeonghan’s ear. It feels just as silky as it's looked all this time, and beckons him forward, urges him to touch. Allows himself to enjoy the way the strands feel wrapped around him.

“Thank you for showing me this, Joshua,” Jeonghan says softly. He looks up, locking gazes — and then breaks off into a giggle. Joshua’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “You look all blue.”

“So do you,” Joshua protests. Mockery is not found anywhere in Joshua’s tone. Jeonghan is radiant, his cheekbones casting shadows. It’s almost magical.

“I am?”

“You’re glowing.”

Possessiveness rushes through him, so forceful and abrupt it’s like his heart hastens to beat faster. It overcomes Joshua, overpowers him, this _realization_. He’s the only one who gets to see Jeonghan like this, this playful side of him, the kind that laughs at pretty fish in the water and preens when Joshua touches his hair.

Joshua doesn’t realize how desperately he wants to kiss Jeonghan till he’s already drowning in his own thoughts. Until it feels like he can’t breathe without feeling his lips against his. The urge is unfamiliar, and then it’s familiar and then it settles underneath each layer of his skin and on the tip of his tongue. Smothers him.

He wants to kiss Jeonghan so badly — and he _could_. There’s a gap of mere inches between them, and that’s nothing, that’s nothing when it used to be entire continents. It would be the barest of movements, just bending his head and their lips would connect, it would be so _easy_. What would Jeonghan’s kisses taste like? Would he whisper, would he moan, would he whimper? What would his hair feel like when Joshua’s hands twist in it?

“Joshua,” Jeonghan says. There’s no one here, but he whispers. These words are for them alone. “I’m so glad I found you.”

The fish sparkle and shimmer, and the light shifts. The shadows rearrange themselves on Jeonghan’s face as he giggles again. He leans forward, and effortlessly cups Joshua’s face in his hands. “Don’t leave me again, okay? I missed you so much, I…”

Joshua aches to touch. The singular point where Jeonghan’s hand is against his cheek is so warm. The rest of him must be even more. There’s that chill that exists in Joshua’s bones but all it would take was just one touch of Jeonghan and he could set the fire running in his veins. “Yes?”

“I don’t know how to live without you anymore, Joshua. All I know is I found you, and that’s all that matters to me,” Jeonghan finishes, and his thumb rubs over Joshua’s cheekbone. His other hand joins its place there. Joshua feels like he’s the centre of the universe. It’s fitting. He’s always rearranged his positioning around Jeonghan, a perpetual moon, but it’s reversed now, with the way Jeonghan moves in. This is the point where Jeonghan will lean in and under the ethereal blue glow, will breathe the same air, will tip Joshua’s head back and kiss him until he can’t breathe.

And then Joshua feels the cold metal against his jaw, and he doesn’t need to see it to know the curves and crevices. Three fused rings. One for loyalty, one for obedience, in the center an insignia for the Order, on the middle finger of his left hand. The same hand that caresses up and down his jaw like it holds dominion. The Order never needed physical shackles, not when a ring accomplishes the same, and looks far more sophisticated.

Joshua forces himself away, severing each invisible tie that binds them. He raises himself to his feet, and swallows every single thought and feeling he’s had till he feels like he’s emptied himself. “We need to go,” he says. His voice is brittle. “Keep moving. It’s getting late.”

Jeonghan stays seated on the bank. Confusion is almost as vivid as the hurt across his face. “Joshua…”

Swallowing is difficult. His throat is lined with glass. “It should be close. The herbs I’m looking for. A little more riding. Maybe twenty minutes.” He tries to find where Soonyoung’s horse has gone off to. Can’t be too far. Probably looked for someplace to graze.

When he stands, his face is no longer bathed in blue. Shadows obscure him. “Joshua,” Jeonghan says again, and this time he reaches for his arm, pulling him back. Where he touches, it burns. “What happened? We were just…”

Joshua lives for the moments in between remembering. It’s in moments like those that he can look at Jeonghan and only see the absolute overwhelming beauty, can admire how clever he is, how witty he is — because it’s when he remembers, that he _can’t_. That he can’t separate Jeonghan from what he is, from what the Order made him, their finest weapon. If he could, Joshua would live in that fraction of an infinity, where all he wanted was to kiss Jeonghan and where he was reasonably sure, that all Jeonghan wanted to do was kiss him back.

But then Joshua just had to _remember_.

“You’ll make a good Inquisitor, Jeonghan,” Joshua says, and the words that push up from his throat seem to be bleeding. He shakes Jeonghan’s arm off. “You don’t need to waste your valuable time with me.”

He wonders if it’s the Frost he’s feeling that’s taking over inside. He doesn’t think so. This feels different. This feels personal.

 

     

There’s a weight on the mattress, and Joshua has half a second warning before Seungkwan curls up next to him, slotting himself under Joshua’s chin. He’s no cushion or linen. He’s warm lump-shaped flesh, but Joshua pulls him tighter anyway.

“You left,” Seungkwan says, and there’s a hint of accusation in his voice.

“Wonwoo told you where I’d be, I’m certain,” Joshua says. He has to keep his breathing steady. So close, Seungkwan can identify each and every inhale — and Seungkwan’s always been too good at telling when Joshua lies. He never thought he had tells, and then he met Seungkwan, and now he’s never lived a more honest life.

“He did,” Seungkwan concedes, “But you never came to talk to me.”

“I thought it was best if I went immediately.” That one isn’t a lie.

“I haven’t spoken to you properly in perhaps a week, you know,” Seungkwan says after a moment. He twines his hands in the sheets. “You made the stew after you went hunting, but since then you haven’t been upstairs.”

“I’m not trying to draw any attention to you, Seungkwan, you know that,” Joshua says in a placating tone. “I know it must be difficult being in hiding.”

Seungkwan’s frown is vivid in his voice. “Joshua, I’m not here to whine. While yes, I do have very many complaints about being stuck in that attic, I’ve written you twenty strongly-worded letters. But I’m here because I was worried.” His hand tugs on Joshua’s shirt. “You stayed out so late, I would have thought you’d just spend the night, but no, you came home in this darkness. Why?”

Seungkwan must hear the change in his breathing. He uncurls himself from Joshua’s grip, and breathes out, and the room sparkles with faint lights. Joshua can observe the strain of hiding showing on Seungkwan’s brow, the circles under his eyes, the cracks under his lips. “Joshua?”

“I didn’t want to spend more time with Jeonghan. I know it’s stupid to go riding home in the middle of the night, but I couldn’t handle another minute,” Joshua says. In an attempt to preserve himself, he constructed makeshift walls and Jeonghan’s attempts at careful conversation were levied against it with no success, until Jeonghan too succumbed into silence. Joshua thought that was what he wanted. But if it was, it didn’t give him any satisfaction. Joshua picked out the plants, thick-stemmed, small flowers and gave instructions devoid of any emotion. But that’s perhaps even more telling than anything else.

“Did he hurt you?” Seungkwan asks, concerned.

Joshua doesn’t think he can handle the overwhelming rush of affection he feels towards Seungkwan, how absolutely pure-hearted and wonderful he is. “No. No, Seungkwan he never hurt me. You don’t have to worry.” And then before he can stop himself, he says: “Jeonghan would never.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” Seungkwan says like he’s handling a startled animal.

Joshua knows better than to lie. “I miss him. I hadn’t realized how much I miss him.” He swallows. It’s difficult talking about Jeonghan — it’s harder talking about himself. But he tries. “I don’t mean that I miss the Order, I don’t, I would never—”

“Joshua.” Seungkwan’s tone is decisive. No doubt. “I know you would never go back. You don’t need to defend yourself to me. Talk without worrying about me.”

Seungkwan was born curious, but when it came to Joshua’s past, he kept his distance. He knew the card-thick house Joshua had built for himself, and never wanted to remind him of what he gave up, not wanting the structure to cave in.

“You don’t want to hear me talk about this. There’s no point,” Joshua protests weakly. “It’s just the unfortunate reality. I can shake off my old life as best as I can but there’s always some sort of tether that holds me back, and this time it’s… it’s him.”

“I don’t know much about him,” Seungkwan says.

“I can’t imagine you’d want to hear. He’s a hunter. I have no doubt about that.” If there was any hope that Jeonghan was more than just an arm of the Order, Joshua would tug on that thread until it unravelled. But Joshua is no fool. Jeonghan is loyal till death.

“He _is_ a hunter,” Seungkwan nods. His eyes are wide with interest, sparkling with magic as they always do. “But so were you. And I bothered to find out who you were.”

Joshua remembers that incident, if just for how bewilderingly odd it was. Seungkwan sitting next to a grief-stricken witch hunter in the back of a wagon, ice crystals still on his lips, and he offered Joshua a bite of his apple, and asked for the favourite place of his hometown.

It had been difficult to speak then, coldness clawing his throat, but Joshua had managed to choke out: “I haven’t been in years. But there’s fields of maize. I’ve always liked the cornsilk. Thought it was beautiful.”

Joshua crystalized that memory as the first time he had a conversation with Seungkwan, some kind of connection with a _witch_. Seungkwan’s empathy towards other people is perhaps what Joshua admires most about him, envies even.

“Tell me about him,” Seungkwan urges, and Joshua’s tongue unknots itself.

Jeonghan is beautiful. Jeonghan works twice as hard as anyone else. Jeonghan is the last of his line of ancient witch hunters, and treats his heritage with respect, but not reverence. Jeonghan coos at his horse and brushes his mane and sings about how beautiful she is. Jeonghan is beautiful. Jeonghan is arrogant. Jeonghan is rude. Jeonghan is aware of his own weaknesses and holds everyone else up to the same degree. And, oh, Jeonghan is beautiful.

“He was my best friend, Seungkwan.” There’s a pause. “If it was anyone else, it wouldn’t have mattered. If it was Jinyoung, if it was Yoohyeon, it would have been fine,” Joshua says, and he’s naming people Seungkwan doesn’t know, but he’s desperate to try and explain, bring some rationality to why he feels like his chest is carving in two. The more he tries to capture it, the more it feels like it slips further away. “Seungkwan, why am I being affected like this? You’re a healer-” he hesitates, “please tell me why.”

Seungkwan holds Joshua’s hand between his own. “Joshua.”

Desperation coats his words. “I can give up everything. I already _gave_ up everything, Seungkwan, you saw me, I took off the rings, I took off the cloak, I put away the swords. What more can I do, Seungkwan, why can’t I just…” Joshua’s voice is hoarse.  

“Did you love Jeonghan?”

Seungkwan’s supposed to be a healer, but all those words do is hurt him.

“Of course I did. How could I not? He was everything.” Joshua evens out his breathing. Has to speak before Seungkwan can. “But that doesn’t matter anymore, none of it matters anymore, whatever feelings I had never amounted to anything then and they won’t amount to anything now.”

Joshua doesn’t wait for Seungkwan to speak, knows that he’ll say something ridiculous. Doesn’t want to hear the word ‘love’ spoken by him again, not sure he’d be able to survive it. “I have to see him until he leaves. I can’t give him any reason to suspect me. But soon he’ll be gone, and then it’ll be fine. Things can go back to normal.”

“Joshua, be careful.” It’s a request. Not an order. Never an order.

“Seungkwan, I’ll never go back, he can’t make me. If you’re worried about the Order trying to force me back—”

“I’m not worried about that, Joshua,” Seungkwan cuts him off. “I’m worried about you getting hurt.”

Seungkwan sinks himself back into Joshua’s arms, and the lights extinguish themselves. “Don’t get hurt,” he whispers into his chest.

Seungkwan says that in ignorance of the hole that’s already started to form in his chest.

 

 

Joshua asked for the witch hunter to come outside but regrets his ambiguous wording when the inn door opens.

“Jeonghan’s pet,” Soonyoung says, face curling into a sour frown. “Why are you here?”

Joshua doesn’t bother correcting him, fairly certain it will do nothing to change anything. “I was looking for him.” 

“What a fucking surprise,” Soonyoung says. His sarcasm is as blunt as he is. “Warn me next time you want to say something so scandalous.”

Brief ignorance almost prompts Joshua to inquire about his health — before he realizes Jeonghan would have been cautious with what information he passes to Soonyoung. And somehow, call it intuition, Joshua doesn’t think Jeonghan cared to share what happened on that particular night.  

“Where is he?” Joshua asks.

“Most likely? Brushing his damn hair.” Soonyoung’s teeth grit. “You talk to me like we’re some sort of equal. I’ll have you know I have the blessing of the Inquisitor around my neck.”

Joshua bows his head, unwilling to infuriate him any further. “I mean no ill will. I know the blessing of an Inquisitor is a high honour.”

This seems to placate Soonyoung, even briefly. He lowers his anger from raging inferno to mild blaze. Joshua tries to come up with the diplomatic way to ask Soonyoung to move, or to call Jeonghan when he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the foul but distinct smell of tobacco.

“Do you smoke?” Soonyoung asks abruptly.

“No.”

“Fucking knew it,” he sighs. “No one in this fucking hellhole smokes. If I was aware it was such a scarce resource, I’d have loaded an entire horse with tobacco and flint. I miss it so much. I’d be able to deal with Golden Boy a lot better if I was.”

_Golden Boy_.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Soonyoung snorts. “It’s so funny to me that your dear friend won’t even tell you his nickname.”

Joshua frowns. It’s the assertion that Jeonghan would be hiding something, that their friendship is something _less_ than, which prompts him to say what he does next. “Hunters aren’t permitted to smoke.”

Soonyoung’s eyes narrow. Joshua regrets what he said, but the damage is done. “ _I knew it_. You aren’t some bullshit childhood companion from the farms. You’re from the Academy. From the Citadel. _Something_ like that.” Soonyoung points at his chest. “You know too much, you _talk_ too much to be a damn coincidence.”  

He’s been too careless. He realizes that now. Let his guard slip when he’s with Jeonghan, not bothering to consider the eyes that follow him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joshua says in a measured tone. “We grew up together. We speak the same language.”

“You’re not normal,” Soonyoung states. “I can see it. I knew there was something up from the way Jeonghan looks at you. Let’s just do the fucking maths here. What kind of childhood friend could he have had?” Soonyoung holds up his hand. An ugly scar that parts his wrist, spiralling out to his knuckles. “We both know the Academy accepts entrances at 12. And I don’t know you, but who wouldn’t fucking know Golden Boy, he’s been half the Inquisitors’ bitch for the past few years.”

Joshua swallows. Keeping his face as blank as possible is the most important thing at this moment. Honesty is not an option. While Jeonghan does not seem like he’s going to be sending him to the Citadel in a cage, it is considerably more difficult to hold Soonyoung to the same standard.

“What’s your deal?” Soonyoung demands, stepping closer to Joshua. “How did someone with all the training and vocabulary of a seasoned witch hunter end up at the tip of the fucking world in a swamp?”

“It’s not quite the tip,” Joshua says mildly, “The Tundra is further from here.”

Soonyoung gazes straight at Joshua, unflinching. “We’re doing this the hard way then. There’s two possibilities I see. The first,” Soonyoung says, holding out his index finger, “is that you defected. The second, is that you flunked. Which is it?”

For a moment, there’s displaced pride. How _dare_ Soonyoung assume Joshua could have failed, when he excelled. When he could best Soonyoung in a swordfight right this moment? He was among the best of his year, he’s been successful in every directive ever since, was commended by Inquisitors, Joshua was no slacker, he worked for this—

And then Joshua _remembers_.

“The latter.” It’s a hard lie. Sticks in his throat. Feels coarse.

“How sad for you,” Soonyoung says without emotion. “You know, the Order would have fixed you up with a nice spot somewhere, given you a pay cheque and let you serve a worthy Inquisitor. You could have served _my_ Inquisitor. It would be a privilege to lick the dirt from his boots.”

Joshua can understand why Jeonghan doesn’t trust Soonyoung. No one should be so singularly loyal to one Inquisitor.

“I don’t appreciate the fact that you’re here, disrupting the investigation,” Soonyoung says after a pause. “But I have no interest in dragging you all the way back to the Citadel. We don’t have enough horses for it, for one.”

So it’s convenience that keeps Joshua alive.

“But let me make it very clear, that Jeonghan is the next Inquisitor, and if this is the mission that propels him to glory, I need to be in on that. I am not about to let my reputation be tanked because you two want to reminisce about playing hopscotch together.” His face contorts into a grimace.

And there it is. Soonyoung harbours no loyalty to Jeonghan, rather merely wishes to ride the coattails of his own achievements. Joshua would feel offended on Jeonghan’s behalf, if his own life wasn’t in jeopardy.

Soonyoung stares at him. “Don’t fuck this up, Joshua. Or I’ll come back with the briquettes and burn you like I’ve done to a hundred other men.”

 

Joshua had a defined script to talk to Jeonghan. He needed to find out if the medicine worked, if further treatment is necessary. That’s it. That’s all. When he emerges from the inn, however, Joshua hesitates.

“Soonyoung told me you were here,” Jeonghan says carefully. “Is something wrong?”

A smirk is upon Soonyoung’s lips as he refuses to leave earshot.

“I needed to speak to you about… last time.” Joshua instantly wishes he could take the words back, upon noticing the way Jeonghan’s eyes widen.

“I was hoping we would, but perhaps not now, maybe later—”

There’s a thrumming sound, and at first Joshua assumes it’s heartbeat pounding against his head. But Jeonghan’s eyes widen in curiosity, and he trails off. He hears it too, gazing around in confusion.

“It’s a horse,” Jeonghan murmurs. “Soonyoung, where’s Levi?”

Soonyoung, currently cleaning his nails with a knife, shrugs. “Tied up. Like you asked me to.”

“You hear it too, don’t you?” Jeonghan gazes at Joshua.

“I do, but I’m sure it’s nothing-”

Hooves hammer against the ground, and the rider tugs on the reins of his horse with such intensity that it brays in displeasure. Uncommon is the word Joshua would use to describe an arrival in the Mire by horse, but it’s certainly within the realms of possibility. Could be anyone from a passing traveller to a vendor, and yet, somehow Joshua doesn’t think this is some wanderer from the North. It’s something about the horse - sleek, black, a scar up the side of it’s face that still has yet to heal.

It’s a horse of war.

The rider jumps off, rather elegantly, in stark contrast to the dried blood that plasters itself on his clothes. Joshua assumes he must be injured, surely, and even steps forward, mind already mapping out the quickest makeshift tourniquet — but that’s not the case, not when the rider stretches his arms out, yawning like he’s had all the time in the world.

Softly, Jeonghan whispers: “Not you.”

The rider gazes down, as if only noticing the macabre mess he’s wearing and shrugs off his cloak, letting it fall to the ground. There’s blood everywhere, streaking the corners of his face, underneath the curve of his eyes, even in the hairline that blossoms into streaks of red-tinted auburn. There’s blood on his hand, and on all five of the rings on his middle finger.

There’s blood everywhere and none of it seems to be his.

“That’s no way to welcome me, is it?” the Inquisitor says, laughing.

Joshua hears Soonyoung blurt out a rushed “My Lord Inquisitor,” — and the next vision is of him dropping to his knees in a bow, gazing up at the figure in front of him with the reverence of a god. Jeonghan replicates the motion, slower. Joshua’s eyes follow the path of the Inquisitor’s rings to his face and he feels his legs falter under the weight of eight years of indoctrination. When an Inquisitor approaches, you kneel, and something ingrained so deeply into Joshua’s mind is not one that can be overcome. He’s doesn’t realize he’s bending until he’s staring at the dirt.

“Why hello there,” the Inquisitor says, in a voice that is both distinctly musical and distinctly familiar. Joshua lifts his head up, but trying to look at the Inquisitor in his eyes tests the fragile limits of his own disobedience.

Jeonghan rises, and steps forward, as if attempting to block Joshua from his imperious gaze. Jeonghan’s breaths come out erratic. There’s a conscious effort to control it, and before Jeonghan speaks, he grits his teeth, blowing out. “Lord Inquisitor, it is an honour and a… _surprise_ to see you here.”

The Inquisitor regards Jeonghan briefly, and turns back to Soonyoung. “Get up from the dirt, Soonyoung. Come now.” It’s the gentlest chastisement that Joshua has ever heard.

“I never expected that you’d be here, my Lord,” Soonyoung whispers, his eyes sparkling, and Joshua doesn’t miss the look of absolute distaste that crosses Jeonghan’s face.

“I was just around, and thought I’d drop by to see my favourite hunters. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, after all. Two months?”

“Three,” Soonyoung answers.

“Three months!” the Inquisitor exclaims. He runs a hand through his rust-coloured hair and fixes his gaze on Joshua, calculating if he’s worth the label of a threat. “I must ask, who is this gentleman before me? He’s shown excellent manners, but I’d love to know why he’s among my hunters.”

Joshua’s words catch in his throat as the gravity of the situation threatens to pull him to the core of the world. A hunter was the evil he knew, a hunter was the evil he _was_ — an Inquisitor would always be the boot he was meant to shine or to be crushed by. This is an Inquisitor, and if he were to run Joshua through with his unforgiving blade, it would be his bestowed duty. Joshua wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t try and escape, he’d just lie down and wait for it to be over. 

“Don’t be shy now,” the Inquisitor says, and laughs, and it’s a sound like bells.

The punishment for defection ranges from re-education to execution. This is a fact that Joshua knows very well, one that he has painted into the walls of his mind. But he never quite imagined it like this, not in this way. He dreamt about his death, of course he did, that was the life of a defected hunter, but he imagined it being dragged in chains and made to stand a trial in the Citadel, watching as a jury of the men and women he once called peers send him to his doom. That would not be a reality — if the Inquisitor recognizes him, if he knows, then nothing matters, then Joshua dies right here.

“Soonyoung, your cloak? Mine’s awfully dirty,” the Inquisitor comments, gazing at the black fabric that coats the dirt. Soonyoung wrenches the cloak off, hands it to his Inquisitor. Soonyoung must certainly be bold to have such prolonged and direct eye contact. Even Jeonghan has looked away, investigating the extent of the horse’s injuries.   

“Thank you. This is much better.” It’s when the Inquisitor smiles that Joshua’s memories snap into place, reconnecting into a replica of the figure before him.

His enthronement was the most recent one, the only one that Joshua was old and experienced enough to attend. It was in his final year of studies and he remembers it so vividly, the way he kneeled at the feet of the High Inquisitor, at the feet of Jeonghan’s father. Joshua asked Jeonghan later that night if he had a chance to speak to him. Jeonghan had told him no, no he hadn’t.

He had been wrapped in a midnight cloak of gold embroidery throughout the procession. Having been the graduating class, Joshua and his cohort were permitted to sit up close and view the ceremony with interest. It’s meant to be inspirational and it _was_. Joshua remembers watching and wishing that one day it’ll be him staring down at Jeonghan’s father as he bestows the honour upon him. But that was for the future, and for that moment, the new Inquisitor had smiled so prettily when the High Inquisitor slid his newly fused rings onto his middle finger. The thing about his smile was that it was just so broad, so big and so _bright_.

It’s all of those now, his smile is broad, it’s big and it’s bright — but it’s also very different now. When Seokmin smiles, there’s far too many teeth.

“He’s my responsibility.” Jeonghan steps forward. There’s no arguments to be had, it’s a fact. Joshua looks up and catches Jeonghan’s glance. His chameleon skin reveals itself as Jeonghan smoothes down his cloak and walks closer to Seokmin, effortlessly slipping into the persona of the noble hunter. “He’s an informant. He’s been assisting us.”

Seokmin tilts his head to the side. “Oh? Well, aren’t you just so _interesting_?”     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gorgeous artwork of the lakeside scene by [almay](https://twitter.com/lovefoolthatsme/status/1138845636609150976?s=19) 💕
> 
> also, peep that chapter count, i rearranged some bits and now we have another chapter! 👀 friendly reminder there's a spotify playlist link down below and you're always welcome to hit me up in my cc! 💕


	6. Decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we return to our favourite humid, wet swamp! 💗⚔️

“Come a single step closer and I’ll cut you down where you stand, _witch_.” It takes Joshua longer than it should to withdraw his sword. The Frost has his senses dulled, has him slowed, but even with clumsy movements and fumbled footing, Anima is powerful in his hands.

The witch — for that is what he is — startles. Magic leaves traces, and Joshua only has to look at the figure before him for less than a second before he starts ticking points off a mental checklist. His gaze betrays the identity of the stranger. Unholy glimmers circulate in their eyes, twinkling in a way that no mere human could ever. There was a tale in the old tomes that the first mages stole their magic from the stars, plucking the light from the heavens and poured it into their own veins. Perhaps there’s a thread of truth to the myth. Certainly, the witch’s eyes sparkle.

“I mean no harm,” the witch says in a rush, palms open — but stops walking. Had Joshua been more alert, he would have seen the signs far before the witch even brushed against the boundaries of his camp. There’s a clear trail of footsteps, and it doesn’t seem like he was trying to hide. But Joshua’s been distracted. Spent the past hour on his knees, attempting to monitor the catatonic Magistrate, and his weak, cold breaths are the only sound Joshua bothers to hear.

“What do you want?” Ice makes his voice sound cracked. “I know what you are.”

“Please,” the witch says. He speaks carefully and clearly, but his fear is evident in the way he swallows. “Wait.”

Joshua is vulnerable. His response time is delayed and his mind is clouded, but a blade is a blade and not even the Frost can make it any less deadly. Blood can still spill even if the hand wielding it shakes. He says the words that exist perpetually at the tip of his tongue. “On behalf of the Order of Witch Hunter, in the absence of my prevailing leadership, the Magistrate himself, I have the authority to kill you right here. Do not try _anything_.”

This one has similar hair to a witch they burnt back in the Fort. There were so many that he’s started to blur the faces together but he remembers her in particular, how her screams rang through the streets. Her voice was far higher than this one though - but the hair, the hair is the same. Blonde, but not gold, fainter than that. The witch is quiet as Joshua assesses him.

The witch’s eyes fall to the ground, and Joshua is overcome with protectiveness for the prone figure of the Magistrate, and shifts closer, obscuring him from view. “Is there something of interest to you, witch? I’d walk away if I were you.”

And then the witch says, in a soft voice: “It’s the Frost, isn’t it?”

Joshua surprises himself with the speed that he moves forward, sword pointed outward, sword poised to kill. This isn’t like him. He’s not someone who stabs first and asks questions later, but if he’s about to watch the Magistrate die with his own fading eyes, he’s going to do it with the blood of the instigator on his hands. When Joshua speaks, it’s with the force of every ice crystal that lines itself in his throat. “ _What have you done?_ ”

“I haven’t, I haven’t!” the witch rushes out, eyes fixed on the blade. His voice shakes. “I didn’t do anything! I’ve no association with that coven.”

“Then, how exactly do you _know_?” His sword doesn’t waver, even if he does.

“I can feel the ice.” When Joshua makes no further movement, the witch continues. “It’s in the air. I can sense it. It’s bad magic, it’s cursed magic and it’s all around him. And it’s all around you.” He dares to take a step closer. “It’s got a hold of you.”

Joshua swallows. It hurts. “Are you here to gloat, perhaps?” He can understand why. It must be enjoyable for these mages to see their keepers in states of distress. This witch will probably remain laughing long after Joshua succumbs.

“Not at all.” He inhales. Stands up straighter. “I can help,” the witch says, and there’s a glint of determination in his eyes. “I can heal.”

If Joshua had time to believe in lies, he’d prefer more creative ones. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m telling the truth. I’ve got no reason to lie.”

“Neither do you have a reason to help me.” Joshua’s slow heart beats faster.

“I don’t want the Frost spreading any further than you do,” he says. “Let me help you. I can save your life if you’ll let me.”

“There’s no hope left for me,” Joshua’s voice shakes as he holds his palms out, the crystals under his nails glinting in the twilight. “You can’t do anything. No one can.”

“You haven’t even given me a chance.”

The witch leans down, never breaking his eye-contact. He’s shorter than Joshua, but has shape to him, he’s no malnourished child of the woods. His hands scoop into the dirt, and for a moment Joshua wonders what kind of spell this is, if he should just run him through with his sword now, before it’s too late—

And a flower blooms in the palm of his hand. The witch coaxes it forward with a hum, and the stem dances in the afternoon light. “Don’t hurt me.” Purple petals radiate like a fan. “I won’t hurt you but I’ll ask you not to hurt me either.”

 

Joshua wishes he could say the same. He looks up at the Inquisitor, staring at him hungrily, and all he wants to say is “ _don’t hurt me_ ”. Wishes he could go down on his knees and beg for his life, say that he’s no risk, he’s never done anything but know it’s useless.  Seokmin wouldn’t give him a trial, seems more than capable of running his still-wet sword through where Joshua stands.

He doesn’t have the leniency to just say “don’t hurt me”. Joshua steadies himself, breathing deeply, and when he hears Jeonghan inhale next to him, it reminds him he’s not alone, not quite. “I’ve heard so much about you, Lord Inquisitor.”

“As well as being a useful informant regarding the area and its inhabitants, he has an interest in the Order.” Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t slip, not even a millimeter. “I think he has potential as joining our ranks.”

“What’s your name?” Seokmin asks. It’s unsurprising he’s forgotten Joshua. He was just a face in the blurred crowd of the most important day of his life. There were a hundred more significant things to recall from that day than some twelve teenagers. Knowing this, Joshua still hesitates, careful not to shed even the slightest piece of information that could light up a memory.

“Levi.” Joshua avoids Jeonghan’s eye. There’s a distinct pause.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Seokmin says, and his smile doesn’t falter. “It brings my heart so much joy to know my hunters have some much-needed help.”

Jeonghan flushes at the backhanded compliment, and Seokmin notices.

“It’s such wonderful news that you’ve found such a gem, Jeonghan. Look at you, recruiting officers even while on the job, what an over-achiever you are,” Seokmin coos. It’s like he’s talking to a baby who recently learnt how to burp on command.

“It’s nothing, really,” Jeonghan replies. His smile strains. “To what do Soonyoung and I owe this pleasure? I had thought you were busy with the insurgents in the Western Ramparts.”

“I was! Now they’re dead. I have a lot of free time,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “I’ve missed my hunters terribly, so I came as soon as I could. Still, no reason to talk in the middle of nowhere. We should sit down and catch up properly.”

Joshua has met a few Inquisitors in his lifetime and the differences that exist between them are highly startling. Perhaps it’s too simple to paint all Inquisitors with the same brush, but to a young witch hunter at the academy, the Inquisitors represented faceless unity. They’re supposed to be the same. It’s a different matter altogether upon graduating, upon knowing them personally. While they all possessed the poise and composure that comes with such a position of power, it was disarming to contrast individuals. Jeonghan’s father, a born adventurer who rode out daily with a body count ranked into thousands was of a different cloth to someone like Inquisitor Jihoon who would spend the day in his throne, poured over maps, ordering strikes with military precision.

And then there’s Seokmin and his pointy smile. Joshua does not know what kind of Inquisitor that Seokmin is, and he fears that he will find out.

“Ah wait. Before I forget,” Seokmin says, hitting his forehead with the base of his hand. “You live here, correct?”

“I do,” Joshua answers.

“Oh, excellent.” Seokmin withdraws his sword out of its scabbard and points it into the distance, the way he came. “About half an hour’s ride away from here you’ll come across the remnants of a bandit camp. You might want to arrange some villagers to sort that out. The smell of rotting corpses always attract wolves.”

Fresh blood coats the tip.

“Were you attacked, my Inquisitor?” Soonyoung asks. His voice is carefully controlled.

“That would be an exaggeration,” Seokmin laughs. “I don’t think there’s very much in this world that can _attack_ me.” His gaze flits back to Joshua. “It’s just a suggestion, after all. But it might be worth taking a look. I don’t know if your kind loot the dead, but I’m sure you’ll find some way to repurpose their wares.”

Fresh blood coats the tip — and yet he waves his sword around as careless as if it was a sparkler.

“I’ll have it seen to,” Joshua says faintly.

“Now, shall we talk?”

Jeonghan gestures in the distance. “Of course, there’s an inn where we’ve been set up. It’s hardly the glamorous quarters of the Citadel but—”

Seokmin doesn’t bother to hear the rest. He strides past Jeonghan in the direction of the tallest house, and doesn’t even bother looking back to see if the hunters follow him. Traditionally, the tallest house goes to the leader of the community and that’s Seungcheol. Seokmin walks towards it decisively, and had it been anyone else, Joshua would have taken the opportunity to slip away, started packing, prepared to run, this time further away. But it’s Seungcheol, and Joshua won’t leave him with an Inquisitor in his home.

There’s no time to talk, and Joshua can only exchange a look of confusion with Jeonghan before Seokmin knocks on the door, a visible grin on the corner of his face. There’s a moment when Seungcheol opens it up, when Seungcheol sees the badge of an Inquisitor, surrounded by two hunters — and when he sees Joshua, his face falls. And Joshua thinks he might remember that forever.

Seokmin pulls on the chain of his necklace until it exposes his medallion, the insignia of the Order emblazed upon it proudly. “So sorry to disturb. Hope you aren’t busy.” He doesn’t sound particularly sorry. “Inquisitor Seokmin of the Western Ramparts. I’m here on business.”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen. “I… I’ve already spoken to the hunters, I’ve told them everything.” He deliberately avoids looking at Joshua.

“And I’m so glad to hear that!” Seokmin replies. “But this doesn’t actually concern you on a personal level. If you’d be so gracious, the Order would like to make temporary use of your home as a meeting place.”

“My home?” Anything would be better than having to hear Seungcheol attempting to hide the distress in his voice.

“Yes.” He smiles. “Of course, this is outlined in the Decree.”

Jeonghan detects the confusion, fills in the gap. “An Inquisitor can take temporary possession of any establishment or possession during the course of an investigation.”

Meticulous precision was needed to sever Joshua’s life, to separate the hunter from the healer’s apprentice. It seems like none of it ever mattered, that Joshua could have used his own blade to cut the vegetables for his soup, could have worn his rings like jewellery. He never wanted the family he’s grown to surround himself with to deal with the Order in any capacity — and yet, now, there’s an Inquisitor in the hallway of Seungcheol’s family home. 

Joshua feels ill.

“Oh. Yes. Alright, of course, I…” Seungcheol trails off, showing clear restraint. “Come right in.”

Joshua has never been to Seungcheol’s home in any circumstance like this, and it’s such a familiar house, one he could navigate in his sleep, but it feels unforgivably unfamiliar now. The same plant he waters when Seungcheol forgets seems to glare at him, the creaking floorboards feel like a warning siren. Joshua had known of this part of the Decree, of course, but he also knew that it was used in times of war, not because an Inquisitor fancied to rest his feet. Joshua catches Seungcheol’s eye and wishes there was a way to reassure him, to tell him that even though he’s among hunters, he’s not one of them.

“The Order thanks you for your service,” Seokmin calls over his shoulder, settling his way into the kitchen. Joshua grabs the corner of Jeonghan’s sleeve, looks at him with confusion. There’s less than a second of time for them to communicate but they never needed more time. Always were able to speak without words.

They exchange looks, a moment of pause as the reality of their situation seems to weigh down the air around them. Jeonghan imperceptibly nods — and Joshua follows him.

“We’ll only be a moment,” Seokmin says as he all but shuts the door in Seungcheol’s face. He halts, biting his lip. “Oh, perhaps I should have asked him to make tea first… ah, well, it’s fine I suppose.”

The kitchen table was lined with ceramic plates and silverware up until the moment Soonyoung walked in, promptly shoving them in the sink, clearing the surface. Soonyoung fits in the seat next to Seokmin, and Jeonghan in the one next to him — and Joshua hesitates.

“And now?” Seokmin asks, amusement thick in his voice.

Formalities do not fall away. “Would the Inquisitor like for me to leave?”

Seokmin considers for a moment, and turns to Jeonghan. “Your call, Jeonghan. He’s ‘ _your responsibility_ ’ after all. If he’s to be an apprentice of yours, might as well bring him into the loop of how things work around here.”

“Stay,” Jeonghan answers instantly, and there’s not much Joshua can do to refuse such a direct command. It’s better like this, he rationalizes to himself, he’ll be able to better know their plans.

“The situation in the Ramparts is resolved,” Seokmin says before Joshua even pulls his chair in. “Took far longer than I would have hoped. It was a horrible investigation. The winter that just passed was one of the worst. You lot complain about summer and the bugs.” Seokmin snorts, leaning back in his chair. “At least you never had to sit by the lit pyres just to stay warm.”

“You’ve suffered greatly, Lord Inquisitor,” Soonyoung says, voice thick with sympathy. He shifts closer to Seokmin, observing his face, as if investigating for any physical signs of harm. “You’re an inspiration to all hunters.”

Jeonghan is trying very hard not to pull a face. Joshua has seen this exact same expression when they were being reprimanded by their instructors at fourteen. It’s a physical effect of repressing a sarcastic comment.

“At least all is done. Ended up having to burn half the town. Smell of ash clung to me the entire way here. Trouble wasn’t even done when I left, then there was the whole business with the bandits before I arrived.” Seokmin pauses, and pouts at Soonyoung, as if enticing sympathy. “I just can never catch a break, can I?”

There’s soot staining Seokmin’s nails.

“Did you come here alone, my Lord?” Soonyoung asks.

“I did.”

“What about your regiment? You had thirteen apprentices under you. The latest cohort of graduates, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan says, and he’s speaks in that tone he uses when he’s trying to hold back the emotion from his voice.

“Clearly they aren’t around anymore,” Seokmin sighs. Disapproval emanates from Jeonghan in such palpable waves that Seokmin frowns, seeking the need to defend himself. “When we arrived, the area was impenetrable, witches fighting in the streets, lightning crackling in the sky. We stayed in a watchtower on the outskirts of the Ramparts. A mudslide put a quick end to our happy accommodations. Took out half of my men _and_ half the building. We started rebuilding, but I wonder what’s the point, none of the thirteen survived long enough to see the final pyre lit.”

“That sounds like an unfortunate sequence of events,” Jeonghan replies. 

Seokmin’s gaze lingers on Soonyoung. “They just don’t make hunters like they used to.” Even if the praise was not directed at Soonyoung, he beams at it regardless.

Jeonghan’s posture stiffens. Joshua can’t help but think Jeonghan doesn’t want to have the Inquisitor here anymore than Joshua himself does.

Seokmin clears his throat. “But enough of that, now, I am so interested to hear how your pet project is going Jeonghan? Found your little witch yet?”

Hearing an Inquisitor refer to Seungkwan’s manhunt as a ‘pet project’ is a pill that is not swallowed easily.

“There’s clear evidence of magic in this area,” Jeonghan says, back straight, face set in a confident smirk. “I have no doubt that an extremely powerful mage lives here, and they are in careful hiding, but I’m positive I’ll find them soon enough. I’m closing in.”

“Ah,” Seokmin says after a pause. “So you don’t have a name for this witch? Or where the witch actually is? Or even a gender?”

“Well, no but—”

Seokmin’s grin does not waver. “Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page. Jeonghan. I do want you to know I have no indication of fiddling in your investigation. After all, this is _yours_. So you can peel that sour look off your face and show off that lovely smile we all enjoy instead.”

The side of Jeonghan’s mouth cracks. “I was not concerned about you intruding in my investigation, Inquisitor, rather I would value any and all guidance you’re prepared to give—”

“There’s little to no actual leads,” Soonyoung interjects. “What he says is a fact: there are traces of magic in the area. But at this point, identifying the actual witch would be quicker if we threw darts and see where they land.”

“Soonyoung,” Jeonghan says warningly, and his cheeks flush.

“It’s a damn fact. We’ve been here for two months and we’ve accomplished nothing.”

Seokmin laughs. “Soonyoung, you can’t be so mean to Jeonghan.” He doesn’t sound like he’s reprimanding him at all. “He’s clearly trying his best. He’s got a lot riding on this after all, we’re looking at our _next Inquisitor_.”

Jeonghan fidgets in his seat like he’s among an audience of a thousand, surveying and criticizing his every move. It appears that Inquisitor Seokmin has the uncanny ability of throwing off Jeonghan’s confidence with the same ease of tossing dirty laundry into the river.

“If Jeonghan wishes to continue his investigation, I certainly won’t stop him. He can make his own decisions,” Seokmin says decisively, the effortless command that comes with the position of power. “But I will say that if he wants to hitch a ride back to the Citadel with me, he should make up his mind quickly, because I have no intentions staying here longer than a week at most. The Ramparts were miserable badlands, but they were better than this swamp.”

“You are not alone in that thought. I hate it here,” Soonyoung replies, mouth curled into a frown. “You’re going back home?”

“Home,” Seokmin repeats. “Yes, I’m going back to the Citadel. I need to inform the other Inquisitors about the mess that happened at the Ramparts, after all. There’s all those formalities that our dear High Inquisitor is so fond of. But after that, well, I haven’t decided yet.” His eyes linger on Soonyoung. “I might just stay there for a while. You’ll accompany me, of course.”

“Forgive me, Lord Inquisitor, but what?” Jeonghan interjects, eyes wide with panic. “I need Soonyoung here.”

The look that Soonyoung gives him could make candles ignite.

“And I need an escort,” Seokmin states. “You can’t expect me to make that long journey all by myself. I was attacked on my way here.”

Seems as though Seokmin fared rather well in that particular encounter. But Joshua doesn’t speak, lets the conversation take place between the hunters. “And besides, you don’t really need Soonyoung, do you? You’ve got your friend there, the responsibility.”

Joshua doesn’t like the way Seokmin looks at him.

Seokmin stretches his arms out, yawning. “I’m positively exhausted. Cannot wait until I get some sleep.”

Jeonghan opens and closes his mouth several times, deciding on his choice of words. “Lord Inquisitor,” he begins.

“Oh see, now I _know_ you’re upset at me because you never call me Lord Inquisitor in full. Jeonghan, it’s not like you’re really using Soonyoung’s skillset now are you? Running around playing detective doesn’t sound like him at all. At least when he’s with me he gets to face off all the beasts on the road,” Seokmin beams. “If you’ll forgive me, I’m very tired and I had expected a conversation of far more substance. We’ll talk later.”

He rises, and Joshua finds himself overwhelmed at how tall he is.

There’s a gesture used in the Order by Inquisitors only. They point with two fingers and it’s an idiosyncrasy that Joshua never comprehended. He wondered himself if he would adopt that the day he ascends to the rank, if just as a result of the sheer peer pressure. Seokmin replicates this now, gesturing to the door.   

“Would you be so kind as to show me the accommodations? I’m positively exhausted.” He only asks Soonyoung, doesn’t even deign Jeonghan with a look. “I’ll see you all tomorrow. Do have a good evening, Jeonghan.”

Seokmin pauses, letting his gaze linger on Joshua. “And Levi? It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Joshua hears him bid Seungcheol farewell, thanks him for letting him use his kitchen, and the front door slams shut. He looks at Jeonghan carefully, still seated, who’s nails have left an indent on the table.

“I need to go,” Jeonghan says, rising from where he’s seated. “I think it would be best if you stay out of sight. The Inquisitor isn’t the kind to ask questions, but we shouldn’t bet on it.” He corrects himself: “You shouldn’t.” 

“Jeonghan,” Joshua says, and grabs his wrist, gazes up into his eyes. “Are you okay…?”

“I’m fine,” Jeonghan replies in a tone of voice that is clearly not. “Joshua, let me go.”

“Jeonghan—”

He severs their grip. “I’m not your concern. None of this is. This is business of the Order, remember? You’re the one who keeps reminding me you’re not part of this anymore, so act like it. Leave me alone.” He doesn’t look back when he storms out. Joshua didn’t expect him to.

The kitchen is lonely now.

There was a time, last winter, just after Seungcheol was married that his wife put on a big pot of soup, invited their little makeshift family around for dinner. Wonwoo was late, as always, came in with hands streaked with grease and immediately apologized to the hosts as he washed off in the sink. It didn’t bother anyone in attendance, Seungkwan was turning salt into sulphur for fun, leaving Joshua both impressed and concerned. Seungcheol couldn’t take his eyes off of his bride, pinching her hip whenever her back was turned, and she scolded him with twinkling eyes. Soup made with such love and consideration was a heartwarming meal, the company even more. The whole kitchen was alive in a way Joshua doesn’t think he’s ever experienced before, never imagined a room could hold any sort of personality, but this one does, has condensed what was left of that night and a hundred others.

It feels wrong to have tainted that moment with the arrival of hunters and the promise of Seungkwan’s demise.

When Seungcheol walks through the door, he’s cautious, a stranger in his own home. “Joshua?”

His throat is dry. “I’m sorry.”

“Joshua, that was… that was an Inquisitor.” Seungcheol’s eyes are wide. “What’s going on? What did they want? Is Seungkwan going to be okay?”

Joshua doesn’t have anything to say besides what he already did. He repeats it anyway. “I’m sorry.”

 

 

Joshua slips into his old self like it’s a winter coat. He drapes his lie around himself so tightly it could keep him warm at night. It’s nice to be someone else for once. _Levi_ , he’s just some swamp-dweller of common birth and class, of no actual use besides that of his navigation. Hardly a flawless disguise, of course. Soonyoung knows his name. This much is certain. And yet, no one knocks at his door at midnight. Perhaps Soonyoung’s own disregard to anything Jeonghan says or does is to Joshua’s advantage. He never questions Jeonghan — or if he did, Jeonghan never tells him.

“Keep up, gentlemen, I’m on a schedule of limited time, and I’d much prefer to enjoy your company in a place of considerably more comfort than this swamp,” Seokmin calls. There’s no hesitation when Jeonghan immediately kicks Levi, the horse, propelling her forward. Joshua barely catches up before they weave through the next cluster of cypress trees. “Levi, is it much further up?”

Joshua doesn’t answer, and neither does anyone else — he belatedly realizes the question is most likely directed at him. It’s not like the actual Levi can talk, after all. “It’s close, but you need to reduce your speed. The mud is thick here, you’ll get your horses hooves caught.”

“And we can’t have that, can we?” Seokmin hums. He runs a hand through his head of rust-coloured hair. 

Once, Joshua came here with Seungkwan in summer. Unbearable heat clouded the swamp, and his muddied footprints depicted his entire path as they weaved through the trees. Sweat had dripped from his brow, indistinguishable from the humidity — but Seungkwan was still there, cheerfully pointing out the plants he knew, plucking the leaves off trees and skipping ahead. Objectively, it was horrible and all Joshua wished was for the relief of a cold bath, but it was also pleasing to spend time becoming familiar with the intricacies of the swamp, learning the value of light-footed steps and observation of the plants surrounding them.

The atmosphere is decidedly different this time.

“It’s so lovely of you to join us, Levi. I’m rather pleased you have such an interest in the Order,” Seokmin says. “It’s a little too late for you to join as a hunter unfortunately, we have a strict training regime that starts as a child, but there are plenty of roles within the Order for an individual of passion and commitment. We have space for traditional labour, you know, guarding, cooking, cleaning. You could work in our forges, you could work in our towers. There are so many possibilities! You could come to the Citadel, and _live_ there, it’s a gorgeous place to be. Isn’t it?”

“It is,” Soonyoung agrees.

“Perhaps you’ve seen it in books,” Seokmin continues, and there’s a starry look in his eyes, “but the Citadel is a fortress beyond imagination. It’s meticulously designed to represent strength and unity, blending aesthetic with purpose. There’s these two spires that reach up into the sky unlike any other, Tower Dexter and Tower Sinister. It’s a wonder to behold. Believe me, if I had a choice I don’t think I’d ever want to leave it. Certainly not for too long.”

His heart aches before he can think better of it, aches for the cool tiles underneath his barefeet in the training yard, of the spring breeze through his hair as he stands out on the balcony of his dormitory, of Jeonghan’s hair tickling his own, whispering dreams of a future they were not destined to have.

“It sounds beautiful,” Joshua says, attempting to keep his tone neutral. He’s not supposed to miss the Citadel, he _doesn't_.

Jeonghan hasn’t said much, barely a single word to him, though it was Seungcheol who came to him that morning with the request to accompany the witch hunters as a navigator into the swamps, and it was a letter signed by Jeonghan’s hand. The conversation about the Citadel seems to have reanimated him, and he looks at Joshua before he speaks. “It is. It feels like home to me.”

Seokmin coos, “That’s a sweet sentiment, Jeonghan.”

But Jeonghan ignores him entirely. “I’ve lived there since I was twelve, but I was only sixteen when I saw the first snow. I thought by that time that I had seen all of the Citadel, up and down, explored every crevice but nothing prepared me for how beautiful it looked in a winter like that, bathed in white.”

Black granite and grey stone had been replaced by sheets of snow, the entire Citadel painted with white. Joshua could not forget it, even if he wanted to. He had lived there for years, thought he saw all he ever could — and then he had the pleasure of being surprised. It was the first time in a long time that he thought the Citadel was _beautiful_. Marvelled at the way the spires stared up into the sky, capped with roofs of crystals. Nostalgia is what Joshua feels now, reminiscing on the way he stared in wonder at the sensation of seeing snow since he was a child.

It hurts, too, to know he’d never be able to see it again, to be able to see snow at all, not without risking his own blood freezing inside of him. He’s kept the memory of the first snow close to his heart for this very reason.

“I remember that year,” Seokmin says after a moment. “I had just come back from an isle on Skellige, saw the whole place was covered in snow. For a moment I had to consider how long I was really gone, thought I might have lost a good few years.”

Jeonghan doesn’t remove his gaze from Joshua’s. “I used to stare out the window just watching the snowflakes fall.”

What Jeonghan pointedly leaves out is that was an activity they did together, using the balcony from their dormitory. Truthfully though, what Joshua remembers from that incident is most likely different to Jeonghan’s own recollection.

A fair amount of classes had been cancelled as the result of the blizzard, and free time was a commodity not often possessed by the young hunters. It was hardly an issue for Joshua who had his life wrapped around Jeonghan’s — the issue was that others seemed to have similar ideas. Joshua was not blind, he knew Jeonghan was beautiful beyond belief, could not blame his peers for their admiration. That didn’t stop him from feeling possessiveness crawl into his lungs and settle there. Couldn’t stop noticing the stares of their peers whenever Jeonghan walked into a room.

The fact remained that it didn’t matter if every single student in their year craved Jeonghan, Jeonghan chose to spend his time with Joshua. Even if it was as simple as merely watching snowflakes.           

Of course, now it seems ridiculous, to have been so concerned about Jeonghan’s potential romantic prospects. Joshua was almost certainly seeing problems where none existed. But they had been teenagers, and in that moment, it seemed like every eye on him was a personal weapon forged against Joshua. It’s almost amusing to realize Jeonghan probably has no idea of the quandary Joshua had found himself then, staring out at the snow, entirely focused on his own selfish desire to commit Jeonghan’s attention for himself.

Adolescent jealousy faded. The urge to kiss Jeonghan senselessly did not.

“Oh Jeonghan, you have the soul of a poet,” Seokmin coos. “I had no idea you had such _depth_ under that pretty face.”

Jeonghan flushes, and says nothing more, letting his fellow hunters fail to control their giggles. And that’s something about the Order that Joshua never even thought to be relieved about — hunters gravitate towards cliques like birds migrating to the south for the winter. Strangely enough, it had never bothered Joshua growing up, he always had Jeonghan, after all — but his first assignment brought the reality that unity among hunters was a rubber band devoid of elasticity.    

“Don’t take it personally, now,” Seokmin replies. “It’s just a pleasing surprise that your friend has such a sweet influence on you.”

The letter Jeonghan had given to Seungcheol made it seem like a simple walk in the swamp. Nothing seems simple in the presence of the Inquisitor. They ride further in silence, the faint sound of indistinct groaning coming from Soonyoung.  

“We can dismount here,” Jeonghan calls, tugging the reins on his horse. “This is the place we were last time.”

It’s also a good place to find mushrooms, Joshua realizes with a sinking feeling. Jeonghan has taken his Inquisitor back to the familiar section of the swamp, the one he had ceremoniously dismissed Soonyoung from to talk to Joshua, to invite him on the hunting trip.

“Tell me about the area,” Seokmin clicks his fingers, walking forward. The force of his footsteps cause his boots to splash water, and he pays little regard to it. Soonyoung follows closely behind him.

“We found traces of magic in the soil. Recent traces,” Jeonghan answers. “It confirmed that there’s a witch in that village.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Seokmin says — and Jeonghan clamps his mouth shut. Joshua would give a gesture of comfort if he wasn’t terrified of his own fate. “Soonyoung, what are your thoughts?”

“I saw Jeonghan check,” Soonyoung replies. “I can’t really confirm more than that. He just… looked at it.”

Seokmin laughs. “Well, I’ll try and do a little better than that. Inquisitor is more than just a title, after all.” He beams at Jeonghan. “Levi, come here, would you?”

There’s a ‘why’ at the tip of Joshua’s tongue that he restrains. Standing next to Seokmin, it’s undeniable that the Inquisitor is taller than Joshua, tall enough for it to matter.

“You’re interested in the Order, correct?”

It isn’t a lie when Joshua nods.

“Then allow me to show you what those of us of the highest rank are capable of.” Seokmin leans down, cups soil in his hand and uses his other arm to force Joshua’s outward. When he releases the dirt into Joshua’s palm, the moisture seeps through the gaps in his fingertips.

“Inquisitors do things a little differently,” Seokmin smiles, and he presses down on Joshua’s hand. It’s unpleasant in the way that holding anything dirty and wet is unpleasant, and he’s just sort of perturbed at the events that are unfolding, wonders if he’s just holding it up for Seokmin as some sort of stand — and then it starts _burning_.

Like misjudging the heat of bathwater, he instinctively recoils, pulling his arm back, the soil dropping to to where it came. But his palm continues to _hurt_ like it’s on fire. He stares at it in disbelief.

“What… what did you do?” It took all self-control to stop himself swearing. He can’t stop his accusatory tone, however.

“I did nothing,” Seokmin replies, almost smiling — if not for the look of concentration in his eyes. “Residual magic lingered. All I did was leach it out.”

Magic doesn’t feel like fire, Joshua wants to argue, magic feels like Seungkwan’s soft palm against Joshua’s cheek and sounds like wind chimes - but suppresses himself. There’s pinpricks of red all across his hand, blood rushing underneath the skin. He cradles his hand to his chest, waiting for the pain to subside.

Joshua looks at Jeonghan only to immediately look away.

“Do you believe me now?” Jeonghan asks after a pause. He tries to hide the resentment in his words. He’s not successful.

“Now, now, Jeonghan, don’t take that tone with me. You’re going to be an Inquisitor. Consider my presence instilling you with the necessary practical skills.” Seokmin places his hand on Soonyoung’s shoulder. “Handkerchief?”

Soonyoung produces one instantly and Seokmin wipes the dirt off his hands. While he does this, he paces around the juniper tree in front of them, old and great, one of the tallest in the swamp. “This tree is dying.”

“That’s Jeonghan quote unquote shady friend,” Soonyoung repeats, grinning when he notices how Jeonghan grimaces at this. Under the direct presence of their Inquisitor, their fragile truce turns to what seems to be sibling rivalry, unable to stop bickering between each other. And Soonyoung knows how to hit Jeonghan where it hurts.

But Joshua does not say anything — because Soonyoung hasn’t yet decided to reveal the fact that Joshua is not “Levi”, and is unwilling to risk his ire.

“Tragic, really. This tree must be incredibly old,” Seokmin murmurs, running his hand up and down the bark. He breaks a section off, observes it closer, and a frown presses into his brow. “Five hundred years by my guess. Perhaps even more. And yet, even now, I can feel the magic coursing through the tissues of this tree. It’s poisoned.”

It seems baffling to believe that Seungkwan is so powerful that the entire swamp is littered with remnant of his own power — but then again, it was also baffling the first time Joshua saw him reduce gold to ash.

“Yes, it does seem so. Regardless, I do think we should move on, there’s not much left to do here,” Jeonghan says tiredly. “What are your plans, my Lord?”

“Hmm? Oh, I thought we’d split up. Traces of magic get weaker with age. Let’s find the exact pathway this little witch walks along. You take your little apprentice, I’ll take Soonyoung and we’ll meet back here in an hour.” Seokmin looks back. “Is that agreeable?”

Jeonghan’s nod is stiff. “I do have one concern—”

Seokmin’s sigh cuts Jeonghan off. “Of _course_ you do. What is it this time, Jeonghan? I feel like you look for problems.”

“I was merely going to suggest that it will be difficult to find this _exact_ tree in a swamp full of a hundred duplicates. Why not just meet in town?” Jeonghan’s teeth are ground together.

“It’s easy to get lost in the swamp,” Joshua remarks, unwilling to leave Jeonghan vulnerable. Seokmin raises an eyebrow at Joshua’s opinion but does not dismiss it.

“You make a point.” He reaches into his cloak, and what follows is so familiar that the very sight of the bottle is imprinted upon his brain. It’s been years since he’s even seen it, can recall the previous time with grief-sharpened clarity. The Inquisitor uncaps the vial and scatters the roots with a sprinkling of the grey powder. Seokmin’s smile seems more insidious than usual when his face is illuminated by the glow of the fire that erupts, consuming the tree.

Jeonghan is five steps away from where he was a moment ago. “What are you _doing_?”

“The tree was dying anyway,” Seokmin waves a hand in dismissal. “It’s common knowledge that the policy regarding those poisoned by magic is to burn them, I’m just expediating the process, and solving your concerns at the same time.” He deposits the vial back into his cloak. “Just follow the smell of smoke. I’ll see you in an hour, if that’s satisfied all your delicate sensibilities, Jeonghan?”

Joshua stares wordlessly at the blackening bark. If some non-verbal communication transpires between the Inquisitor and his hunters, Joshua is unaware of it. His focus is refined by fire.

“Ride well, Inquisitor,” Jeonghan murmurs.

Seokmin’s hand is firm on Soonyoung’s shoulder when he leans into whisper something — and then they mount their horses and take off in the opposite direction, leaving Joshua and Jeonghan with the pyre he’s left to burn.

There’s a sickness uncoiling in Joshua’s stomach as he watches the tree burn, leaves disintegrating into ash. Embers drift aimlessly. He might throw up but his throat feels too dry. Air struggles to pass through his lungs. He needs to step back, but he can’t seem to find the way to move.

Fundamental differences are obvious. There’s no screaming this time. There’s no sound of nails scratching against the binds that restrain the witch. There are no curious onlookers. This isn’t a burning in the traditional sense. But that doesn’t mean that things aren’t the same. The smell of metal is strong in the air mixing with the smoke, the odour foul.

It’s just too familiar. 

He feels a hand brush against his own. Looks up and sees Jeonghan staring at him, concern written in his face.

“Joshua, we need to go.”

He doesn’t unlink their hands.

 

 

Witch hunters and witchers have a lot in common: they both hunt monsters. The difference is that where the former restricts themselves to those empowered by magic, witchers slay beasts, they slay wraiths, they slay giants and goblins and everything in between. Teeth like carving knives cause no more than a sigh of exasperation to witchers, who’ve trained their entire life, mutated their very body to become the killing machine they’ve become.

They’re savages, really, almost indistinguishable from the monsters they kill. That’s what Joshua thought, anyway, the stories in the Citadel were always so _intense_. Tales of a witcher from the School of the Cat strangling an ekimmara to death with his bare hands instilled a very interesting stereotype in the heads of the Academy’s students. Joshua considered himself a tolerant sort of type, and even he had certain ideas about witchers that, while most likely inaccurate, were certainly upsetting.

And then he met one himself, and was rather fond of the man, and changed his mind entirely.

“I knew a witcher,” Joshua says to fill the silence. Jeonghan is working, as much as what considered to be working is, when all he does is examine dirt. He doesn’t seem to be able to do what Seokmin does — but then again, neither does Soonyoung, and Joshua isn’t aware of it either. 

Jeonghan, currently crouched on the ground, looks up. He wasn’t presumptuous enough to expect Joshua to help him in his search for magical traces, but also didn’t seem like he expected conversation. “Really? I can’t imagine they’d come to this part of Velen that much. I mean, sure, there’s plenty of beasts in these swamps but I hardly think the townspeople would bother with the effort of hiring a professional of that degree and paygrade.”

“It wasn’t in Velen. It was before.”

And this gets Jeonghan’s attention. “Oh?”

Silence weighs on Joshua. Jeonghan is consciously lying to his Inquisitor for the sole reason of protecting Joshua’s identity. It’s a crime, and it’s one that would be harshly punished if Jeonghan was found out. To say he feels owed to Jeonghan only seems to explain half of the truth. He feels _touched_. A risk this great is not one that Joshua ever expected from him. Secrets kept from Jeonghan were never anything Joshua could have wanted before, and it feels strange to have them now. Surely, some innocuous details could be shared?

Joshua wonders if he’s just looking for an excuse to trust him again.

 “It was in my days at Westwind Fort. There was a griffin terrorizing the outer villages, and it was starting to come closer, picking off farmers and their cattle.” It was his first time seeing such a creature. Wings as vast as cliffsides. Claws sharper than blades. A perpetual snarl upon its face. “None of the others hunters particularly cared, after all, it’s not like we were responsible for the protection of the village against anything other than witches… but I had to do something, I wasn’t just going to wait until it attacks our own barracks. So I hired a witcher who came to town.”

Mingyu, with his ashen blonde hair and a smirk settled upon his pretty face, had two swords and as he proclaimed the first time Joshua met him, he “knew how to use them”. He was terrifyingly tall, a ghost of a scar settled on his right cheek, yellow eyes glinting like a cat and he looked the picture of the rumours Joshua heard in the Academy - but he was so much _more_.

“It was my first time ever meeting one,” Joshua says.

“What school was he from? I know School of the Cat produces some individuals who truly would be more suited being locked up in towers than the dragons currently occupying them.”

“School of the Wolf?” Joshua chances. “It was something like that.”

Jeonghan nods. “Common one.” Jeonghan knowledge knows no bounds, neither by country or by time.

“I think I was scared of him, honestly, but he wasn’t at all like I thought witchers were. He was… _nice_.”

Mingyu had been terrifying, yes, but that was before Joshua heard him laugh, before he bought Joshua a drink and remarked that he’d “ _never met a hunter this pretty_ ”.

Jeonghan laughs. “Oh, this story has a surprisingly sweet side to it. Did you make _friends_ with a witcher?”

Joshua flushes. “Is that a problem?”

“To me? Not at all. But we know the reputation those monster hunters have among the Order. Didn’t your fellow hunters laugh at you?” Jeonghan’s hand is on Levi as he mounts. He points north and Joshua follows on his own horse.

“I don’t think they cared, truthfully. He slayed the griffin, and Inquisitor Jihoon had been rather impressed by my _pragmatism_ as he called it, and gave me the funds to pay the witcher.”

“And then you had tea and biscuits together and stayed up till midnight talking about your hopes and dreams,” Jeonghan finishes, grinning wickedly.

Joshua would roll his eyes the teasing — if it wasn’t just the slightest bit true. Not quite, Jeonghan’s got the details wrong, but they did stay up till midnight. There wasn’t a lot of talking, however, their lips had been too occupied in other pursuits. It was just an invitation to have drinks at first, a celebratory formality after Mingyu brandished the trophy of the griffin he had slayed, a triumphant edge in his gaze. And then it was a little bit more, because Joshua hadn’t ever realized how narrow his view of the world was until speaking to someone who had literally walked the entirety of it, found himself enraptured by the stories that flowed from Mingyu’s lips like honey.

Truthfully, Joshua doesn’t think he can forget how hot Mingyu’s mouth was against his own, the way they collided into each other in the room he rented in the inn, the feel of Mingyu’s ashen hair entangled in Joshua’s grip. There’s an invisible imprint on the skin of Joshua’s waist from where Mingyu had pressed his hands into, hungry to touch.

“ _Are witch hunters required to have so much unnecessary uniform?_ ” Mingyu had grumbled as Joshua painstakingly unravelled each and every layer he had. He didn’t complain after though, his yellow eyes darkening to amber grabbing Joshua closer till he was in the perfect position to kiss him till they both gasped for air.

“I enjoyed his company,” Joshua summarises. “That’s all that needs to be said.”

“I also know a witcher,” Jeonghan says, gazing wistfully into the distance. “Quite liked him. They’re really unlike any other kind of person. Despite the prejudice, they actually remind me the most of hunters, more than anyone else. They’re incredibly disciplined, stick to their own code and ethics, but also so different from the Order.” He adds: “Levi bit him.”

Joshua laughs. “Oh, did you meet him recently?”

“No, not at all, we’ve been casual aquaintances for ages, since my second year of graduation.”

“But you said Levi bit him, and you haven’t had Levi particularly long,” Joshua points out.

“Oh,” Jeonghan says. It’s not very often Joshua catches Jeonghan, and the time it takes him to recover is always so quick. But Joshua notices. “Well, yes I did meet him again recently but that’s neither here nor there.”

Joshua can’t imagine why Jeonghan would ever need a witcher, particularly considering that he’d spend the time before travelling here at the Citadel, and before that visiting his father. “But, weren’t you home?”

“Joshua, with all due respect,” Jeonghan says, turning around. His mouth is in a tight line. “I don’t really think you’re in any position to be interrogating me about the specifics of a particular anecdote in my life when you won’t even tell me the basics of how you got here.”

Hurt flashes across Joshua’s face. It’s the truth, of course, but that’s why it feels like this. “Jeonghan, I don’t want to be in this position anymore than you do. I would have gladly left you alone but you were the one who told Seokmin I was your… _apprentice_.”

Jeonghan’s face contorts to a frown. “And was I supposed to tell him the truth? That you’re a defected hunter? That one day you woke up and decided that the decade of your life you’ve dedicated isn’t worth it anymore? That you ditched the Order, traded towers for trees, swords for swamp weeds?” Jeonghan looks straight ahead, just letting Levi control where she’s trotting. He seems a storm cloud. “Do you care so little about your own life?”

Joshua is quiet for a moment. “Is that what you really think?”

The flash of recognition in his face means Jeonghan realizes his mistake. But Jeonghan isn’t very good at apologizing — or he just doesn’t think Joshua deserves one. “It’s not like I have anything else than my own guesses to figure out how you ended up here.” Jeonghan snorts. “Inquisitor asked me last night how I met you, and I had to make up absurd stories, unravelling our entire fake history together. It could have been simpler Joshua, if you just told me the truth.” 

Joshua decides he doesn’t like being owed to Jeonghan anymore. Not if Jeonghan treats it like this. “Do you think I want to be out here with you and your Inquisitor?”

“It’s hardly about what you want, _I’m trying to help you_.”

Joshua hadn’t realized they’ve started screaming at each other until Jeonghan’s own voice resounds across the swamp. Jeonghan dismounts, starts pacing in circles, unwilling to face Joshua.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan exhales, stepping closer. He can see the rage reflected in his eyes.

He had been grateful at first. But lying is easy for Jeonghan, and it’s hard not to wonder if the only reason he told Seokmin he wanted to be associated the Order is because Jeonghan wanted him back, and if asking didn’t work, perhaps forcing his hand would yield better results.  

“Make one move out of line and Seokmin will not hesitate, Joshua.” Warning replaces the anger in his voice. “I know who my Inquisitor is. And he is not known for his mercy. For your own good, I would say to just keep quiet and listen to what he says. You don’t have to agree with it, but if you want to stay alive, you need to nod when you’re supposed to.”

And if that isn’t the core tenant that the entire Order has been based upon. The very thing he shrugged off along with his uniform and his swords and his rings.

It took Joshua time to learn how to disagree. To have opinions that exist outside of his head, that are beyond what the Order told him to think.

Seungkwan noticed Joshua’s acquiesence but never confronted it directly. He preferred the approach of testing the limits of Joshua’s obedience with requests that steadily escalated in absurdity. It was asking for mushrooms when Joshua snapped, when he just said no, no he would not go out in the middle of a storm just to pick mushrooms when he had just gotten up at dawn the day before for the same reason. And that was a choice Joshua made himself, he _disagreed_. There was no punishment, there was no re-education. And then he couldn’t stop for a while, would just say no to everything, announced he hated the colour orange, that he hated the humidity of the swamp, and he hated the farmer’s son as well. It was nice to have opinions for once. Joshua had considerably mellowed out since, changed his mind on the farmer’s son and orange, but still detests the humidity. It was nice to have the freedom to do so.

But it was hard. It was hard learning how to be a person independent of the Order, and once he was, it was intoxicating. He could be who he wanted to be, could think what he wanted to. He wasn’t going to give that up. Doesn’t think he could if he wanted to.     

 “Jeonghan, I’m not one of you.”

“That’s clear,” Jeonghan replies. His voice is a strange mixture of grief and rage.

“I don’t think I should be here,” Joshua says quietly.

“ _You seem to be quite good at leaving, don’t you_?” Jeonghan replies in their native language, and Joshua would have preferred to have forgotten every single word in his own mother tongue if it meant he didn’t have to hear that.

Jeonghan shrugs, an unconvincing display of nonchalance. “If you’re so desperate to go, I won’t stop you. But I will tell you if you don’t show up at that tree in an hour, Seokmin might just decide to come at your damn door. And I won’t be able to help that time.”

Jeonghan doesn’t wait for a response, merely rides away, Levi’s hooves splashing water as she bounds against the ground, his blonde hair swishing in the wind.

It’s emptier without Jeonghan. But more relieving. Like he can breathe air again. His next move is difficult to decide. The temptation of just running home and succumbing to the relief of sleep is high. It’s felt like he’s never had a proper night’s rest since the hunters arrived — but he knows the price is too high. He will not actively partake in the Order’s machinations but Jeonghan has a point. He can’t defy the kindness of Seokmin, even if it’s nothing like any kindness Joshua knows. He can’t have him come to his _house_.

 

 

“What do you know about the Blue Frost?”

And Joshua stops. Inhales. Exhales. His breath is warm, but he remembers what it was like when it wasn’t. 

“I can’t say I know much,” Soonyoung’s voice is almost sheepish. “It wasn’t really of any interest to me.”

Seokmin’s laughter is warm. “Understandable, really. I don’t think anyone’s spoken about it in ages. You know that’s Jihoon’s pet project after all, he takes it so personally.”

“The High Inquisitor has his priorities, clearly.” There’s a snort of derision. “Honestly, it’s been a relief being away from the Citadel, he’s unbearable in one of his moods. I’ve got no love for Jeonghan but I have even less for some of the people there.”

Joshua’s lived in the swamp for so long. He knows how to walk swifter than the hares, knows how to tread through puddles without splashing and knows how to weave between the trees, taking advantage of their curving nature, obscuring everything in shadow. Joshua had dismounted from his horse, intending to wait near the tree until Jeonghan’s arrival — he had not anticipated to find Seokmin and Soonyoung sitting on an overturned log, chatting as if this was a social visit. He does not dare move, not risking betraying his position with an unknowing step into water.

“What’s been happening at the Citadel? Feel so disconnected from the rest of the world,” Soonyoung scowls. Seokmin has his cloak off, just basking in the humidity, like he’s sun-starved. It is bizarrely ordinary.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been back myself, and they’ve been hassling me to return, won’t stop sending me letter after letter after _letter_. They’re in the festive mood, you see, there’s an enthronement coming up.” There’s something like mockery in his tone.

“Golden Boy,” Soonyoung completes.

“Exactly. And he’s the son of our former High Inquisitor, and he’s so talented and he’s going to be the youngest Inquisitor in history, and that’s just so impressive, isn’t it?” Seokmin yawns. “They’re inviting everyone up for it. Event of the century. And all Jeonghan has to do is burn some smelly swamp witch, we can throw the party and we can all move on with our lives.”

“Can’t fucking wait to be rid of him, if I’m honest.”

Joshua wonders if Jeonghan even realizes how little the people around him care. If he realizes that the Order will never appreciate him to the extent he deserves.

“Why’d you ask about the Blue Frost?”

“Mmm,” Seokmin hums. His eyes are shut now, savouring the sunlight. “There’s traces of ice crystals in the bark of the tree I burnt. It’s the reason _why_ I set it on fire. I can’t really be sure of anything, not until I deliberate this further. I’ll have to sit down tonight and figure out everything, might have to actually read some of those tomes Jihoon has sent me on the disease.”

“You think the witch caused it?” Soonyoung asks.

“I don’t know if I’d say that. But there’s certainly something strange I’ve observed. It’s in the soil as well. Jeonghan wouldn’t have picked it up, it’s so faint. My rings are the only reason why even I could sense it.”

There’s no way to connect the Blue Frost to Seungkwan. It is, however, very easy to connect the Blue Frost to Joshua. But perhaps it’s better that way, confuses their search.

“The idea of all that work bores me to tears,” Seokmin sighs, “I just want to be back in my quarters in the Citadel, letting some earnest teenagers fawn over my every move and leave legs of roast lamb outside my door.”

“I’m tired of talking about work,” Soonyoung murmurs. “I’ve missed you, my Inquisitor.”

Seokmin opens his eyes, and when he gazes at Soonyoung, there’s unfathomable tenderness. “I missed you too. It’s the longest we’ve been apart, isn’t it?”

“Three months,” Soonyoung answers. He’s quieter than usual when he speaks to Seokmin. “This is the first time we’ve been alone in a while.”

“We were alone last night,” Seokmin replies. “I agree with the sentiment, though. Feels like I haven’t had the chance to look at you yet.” When Seokmin raises his arm, Joshua assumes it’s to strike, because that’s what Inquisitors do. They _hurt_. But Seokmin does not — rather he cups Soonyoung’s face in his hand, tracing his cheekbone. “I’ve missed seeing you.”

Soonyoung preens under the praise, docile as a cat.

“I don’t like being away from you, at all. You’ve been under my command for all these years, I’m not used to not being able to tell you what to do.” Seokmin tilts his head, as if to examine him in a better angle. “Have you been okay?”

“Better now that you’re back.”

“I don’t remember this being here the last time,” Seokmin murmurs, his thumb rubbing over the side of Soonyoung’s cheek. He’s gentle over the tender skin. “This is a new scar, isn’t it?”

Soonyoung nods.

“Tell me who did this to you. Tell me who hurt you and I’ll burn their entire village down,” Seokmin whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “You know I don’t care, I’ll do it. I don’t need a reason, _you_ are my reason.”

Despite himself, despite the dangers, Joshua takes a step back, doesn’t look behind him as he does, risks sinking into a puddle, or falling, but he’s unable to remain motionless. Jeonghan had mentioned that Soonyoung worshipped his Inquisitor. Joshua wonders if he knows that it works the other way as well.

“I hear hooves. Jeonghan must be coming back,” Soonyoung murmurs against Seokmin’s lips. “Can’t we just leave him here and ride back ourselves?”

“Of course not. We have a job to do, after all,” Seokmin replies, threading his hands around Soonyoung’s neck. His voice lowers to a purr. “But I’ll tell you that when this is done, when we’re back at the Citadel, when we won't be bothered anymore, I’ll lock us up in my quarters, bolt it shut. You won’t be able to move for days when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk without feeling me.”

The hooves increase in speed, and he doesn’t have any time left. Joshua weaves through the growth of trees, leaping through the gaps, not slowing down until he spots Levi’s well-groomed mane. Jeonghan appears surprised to see him, but controls his expression immediately.

“Ah, so you decided not to act like a little child and run home?”

Joshua had forgotten Jeonghan’s temper was a difficult beast to tame. It’s difficult to speak, his breath coming out in pants. “Jeonghan, I—”

“Good to see you two have returned!” Seokmin looks different with the cloak on. All traces of the vulnerable lover have vanished — this is the Inquisitor that Joshua remembers, the one with a cruel smile and an even crueller laugh. “I take it all it went well?”

Jeonghan nods his head. “I would say so.”

“I was wondering though, Levi, would you mind going on ahead? I have a matter to discuss with my hunters, Order business, I’m sure you understand.” Seokmin beams. 

Joshua catches a glance with Jeonghan. Of course, he’s desperate to go away — but he worries if he’s been seen. But Jeonghan’s face is purposefully blank, regarding him with little interest.

“I understand Lord Inquisitor.” Thank him, Joshua thinks to himself. “I have to mention my gratitude for allowing me this opportunity to serve you.”

He doesn’t look back when he mounts his horse. He hesitates before he starts riding and Seokmin’s voice resounds into the empty swamp.

“Jeonghan, have you heard of the Blue Frost?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count has been upped to 9, yes, but so has the TENSION. thank you to everyone who's read and commented so far, it's been absolutely wonderful to read the feedback, and i do hope you enjoyed this chapter and will enjoy what's still to come!


	7. Extinguish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> burn gets warmer, swamp gets colder 💗⚔️

Hunger makes a home in the emptiness of Joshua’s stomach. Their provisions have been rationed to new degrees of austerity. Dinner last night had been half a milk roll with a spoonful of apricot jam split between them, and left them more famished than they'd been before eating. The witch — no, _Seungkwan_ , Joshua’s been trying to get used to the strange feel of his name in his mouth — is optimistic despite the rapidly deteriorating odds.

“I never had apricot jam before,” Seungkwan informs him. “Had an interesting taste to it! What would you call it? Sort of sweet, but also zesty? _Tart_ , perhaps, but I’m more familiar with that word being used to distastefully describe girls from my village.” He observes Joshua dragging the firewood into position with open interest. “We never had apricots where I’m from. It’s an expensive fruit, isn’t it?”

“I would guess so,” Joshua says, never having needed to buy any.

“I’ve not done quite a lot of the things that you do. At the same time, it does seem like you lot are quite different from what I would have thought.” Seungkwan kicks his legs against the log he’s seated upon. “Why didn’t you think of bringing more rice? Do hunters always take such limited food supplies?”

Seungkwan talks a lot. It fills a silence that had begun to smother Joshua.

“No, no, not at all. We’ve been on the road for a long time, and used up most of what the Citadel requisitioned to us when we left. We had the equipment to hunt with us but…” Joshua pauses to pant. His breath is winded from dragging the logs, and he rests on his haunches, pain shooting through his body. “I _can’t_. I can’t in this condition. I’m acceptably good but when the Magistrate was younger, he was one of the best bowmen in his division. Food was never going to be an issue when I was with him.”

He said he would teach Joshua someday. Said that anyone was able to do better if they tried. Knew some tips and tricks that could help him out. Air struggles to pass through Joshua's throat, and he begins to cough.

“Do you need water?” Seungkwan asks, carefully. His hands are raised, as if ready to manifest it from the ether. Perhaps he can. Joshua never asked.

“No, just—, give me a moment.” He focuses on each individual inhale and exhale. Ice crystalizes on his lips again. “I’m fine.”

“Perhaps I can try hunting until you recover? Shouldn’t be too hard, right?" Seungkwan chirps. "Snares, that’s a thing?”

"Don't bother."

"No, I'd like to help!” He claps his hands together. “I've never tried it before but I'm sure it'll go fine."

 “I sold it.” He’d like to see Seungkwan’s face, but can’t summon the strength to raise his head. “The bows. The arrows. The snares. I sold it all. I had to pay for the Magistrate’s doctor’s fees, for all the medicine, for the lodging through every town we went through.” Pauses. “He would have been furious with me if he knew, but I had no other choice.”

The sky is streaked orange. There’s not much light left to start the fire but Joshua can’t move, the exertion too much for his ice-stricken body. Seungkwan shifts from where he’s sitting but doesn’t dare to come closer unless given express permission.

“What does a Magistrate do?” he quirk his head to the ide. “I haven’t heard the term before.”

This is easy to say, it’s reciting what’s written on the inside of his skull. “It’s a specialized position of leadership within the Order. Certain witches, such as those belonging to a coven, require a trial in the course of an investigation. A Magistrate presides over these trials.”

“I noticed he had four rings,” Seungkwan remarks, broaching the topic with careful consideration. “You only have three.”

This is enough for Joshua’s head to snap up, rage captured in his gaze. “Did you take them off him?”

“No. Joshua, I wouldn’t,” Seungkwan says, and his eyes are wide. Pity, perhaps. “You know I wouldn’t.”

The guilt sets in. He doesn’t apologize, because he _doesn’t apologize to witches_ , but he turns his head away. For what little he knows of Seungkwan, petty theft isn’t among his traits. He healed Joshua from the life force of his own body — material possessions do not seem to be of importance to the witch. “We were meant to preside over a trial. That’s why we’re here. The Coven of the White Witches of the Tundra —  the ones who invented the Frost.”

Realization dawns on Seungkwan’s face. “I wondered why hunters had come down to Velen,” Seungkwan says. “Your kind doesn’t often come this far down.”

Their reputation precedes them.

“It was a confidential mission. Barely anyone knew. Meant that no one knew how to help.” He wants to explain further. Would not want Seungkwan to make incorrect assumptions about him. But it’s getting overwhelming again, his head starting to pound. “Seungkwan, how long did you say it will be until I’ll be back to normal?”

Seungkwan doesn’t answer immediately, and that causes Joshua to stare at him in alarm.

“Seungkwan?”

He’s careful with the words he uses. “My magic can only do so much. Especially since I arrived so late. I can drive away the Frost when it starts to take hold, but it’s not like any other sickness that you’ve ever encountered before.” He pauses. “This one won’t leave.”

“But I’ll be fine, right? After a week or two or maybe a month?” He needed to get to the Tundra. Inquisitor Jihoon was _waiting_ for him, he needed to tell him what happened, he always liked Joshua, he’d be able to help.

There’s obvious discomfort in Seungkwan’s face. “Winter has made a home in you, Joshua. I don’t think you’ll ever be who you were before the Frost ever again. It’ll come back, every year, worse than before.” He pauses. “I’ll help where I can, but… you’ll never escape it.”

“What am I supposed to do when we part ways?” His voice is the only sound in a rapidly darkening sky.

Seungkwan doesn’t answer. He rises to his feet, walks to where the firewood is collapsed upon the ground where Joshua had dropped it. Lays it out precisely. His observations had paid off. “Shall I light the fire?”

“It’s fine, I’ll do it.” It’s the one thing he’s still capable of, after all. Eight years of training at the Academy in both academic and physical pursuits could be condensed into this simple act: lighting fires. He reaches into the pocket of his cloak and pulls out the familiar vial. Grey powder coats the inside — was once called their own form of gold. He uncaps it quick enough to dust the logs in the fine coating. Steps back in the second before the logs erupts into flames, bright and hot and _hungry_.

Joshua’s in a strange place where the ground is always wet, the air is always warm and there’s creatures who have names that Joshua’s tongue cannot begin to pronounce. But when he inhales the faint metallic odour in the air, sees the embers brightening in the twilight sky, the world becomes familiar.

The fire reflects itself in Seungkwan’s wide eyes. “Is this how you witch hunters…?”

“Light pyres?” Joshua finishes. “Yes. We use torches of course, but this helps. It’s a powdered metal. Ignites spontaneously in the air.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

"You wouldn't have. It's closely guarded. And dangerous. Harmless when contained, but when released, can burn down the world around it."

Joshua knows what fear looks like. It's the way Seungkwan's gaze remains fixed on the smouldering logs.

“Does such a well-kept secret have a name you can tell me?”

“Pyrophoros,” Joshua says.

    

   

“No, not an elf, I want to know if the _blonde_ witch hunter is here,” Joshua says in a pained tone, “he’s accompanied by another hunter and an Inquisitor. He's blonde, but he's _human_ , I need to make that clear.”

Mark claps his hands together. “Right, yes, them! Sorry, it’s been catastrophe after catastrophe here. Can you believe Yeri quit? Ran off with her girlfriend, I swear, I can’t stand the people who work here.” And then in a louder voice, he adds: “Especially people named Jeno who still haven’t mopped the bathrooms!”

It’s maddening.

“You know, I’ll just go up and talk to them myself,” Joshua says, fast deciding that the best course of action is to cut out the middle man. He’s almost to the stairs when Mark seems to realize the man he was speaking to vanished.

“They’re not there,” Mark calls, leaning over the counter.

He stops. “They aren’t?”

“They specifically said they would be gone all day and to clean their rooms. They really are a filthy bunch, you know there's a crack in one of their headboards? How do you manage that!" Mark heaves a sigh. "They’ll be back late as well, they wanted us to extend our curfew. And I told them, you know, it’s dangerous to be in the woods at night, I told them!” Mark’s voice has taken on a whiny note, “But the tall one just laughed at me and said he wasn’t afraid.”

It’s hard not to feel despondent. At least before Joshua knew that the hunters had no clue what they were doing, were just helplessly and haphazardly drifting from door to door. This is an entirely different situation now, under the guidance of an Inquisitor who already had inklings of the magic that lingers in the swamp.

“Thanks for telling me, Mark,” Joshua says, waves his hand.

“It’s not a problem at all. And you know, if you’re ever looking for a job, we are hiring here!”

 

 

“Shut the door,” Wonwoo says the moment Joshua walks in, and his voice is as sharp as steel.

He knew something was wrong the moment he saw the rows of arugula in the yard. Their leaves are drooping. That’s not like Seungcheol at all. The pride he puts into his garden is the same he puts into the entire community — and he’d never just let them wither.

“What’s going on?” Joshua asks, alarmed. He obeys Wonwoo’s instruction, locks it as well. The room is dark. Curtains are drawn.

The last time he was here, he was accompanied by an Inquisitor and two hunters. He should feel more at ease — but there’s no relief to be found in the faces of his friends. “Why are we all here? Who’s watching over Seungkwan?” Joshua asks.

He gazes at Seungcheol in confusion.

“Seungkwan is why we’re all here,” Seungcheol mutters. “We need to talk without a chance of him listening. Or, for that matter, any of the hunters either.”

Joshua distantly wonders if this is how it ends. That they’ve decided the arrival of the Inquisitor has caused far more problems than Joshua is worth, that they intend to give him up in exchange for Seungkwan’s safety. He could understand why they would want to. He’d forgive them.

“I was there earlier but you weren't in,” Wonwoo says. “Seungkwan tells me you haven’t spoken to him in a while.”

Ah. He had been at the inn, attempting to gauge Jeonghan's positioning. His choice to visit Seungcheol had been entirely the effect of avoiding going home.

“I didn’t want to draw attention to the attic in case I was being observed,” Joshua answers, defensiveness creeping into his tone. Active avoidance was a skill that Joshua was fast attaining proficiency.

“That’s reasonable,” Seungcheol says. Nevermind that had the hunters clearly had far more pressing priorities than peering out windows. “But we fear that the hunters may have decided to take a different course of action. That they might try and flush him out.”

“Seems impossible. Seungkwan isn’t happy up there, but if the alternative is death, he’ll stay there forever,” Joshua says without hesitation.

He hadn't told anyone about Seokmin's discovery of the Frost. And doesn't know how Seungcheol would have found out otherwise. This doesn't seem to have anything to do with Joshua at all, and that just concerns him more.

"There's been a change."

There’s a tension in the air that seems physical.   

“Joshua,” Wonwoo’s eyes are reddened. He looks tired. “What was that disease you had when you came here? The ice one?”

_When he came here_. Seungkwan had told Joshua to wait outside this very house, went to speak to Seungcheol alone. To this day, Joshua cannot imagine what he told Seungcheol, but knows that after a few minutes, the door was opened and Joshua was allowed inside, and Seungcheol never questioned how a defected witch hunter ended up on his doorstep.

“The Blue Frost?” Joshua blinks. “Why would you ask?”

“It’s not… _contagious_ , is it?” Seungcheol asks, shifting uncomfortably. He sits on his own couch like it doesn’t belong to him.

“Not at all,” Joshua answers. The attention being put on him is turning uncomfortable. “It’s chronic, yes, but it can’t be transmitted. Otherwise it would have broken out in the Mire years ago.”

“Yes. Of course. That makes sense,” Wonwoo says, and bows his head in apology. “I’m sorry if that was too personal, I’m just incredibly concerned at this moment.”

The room feels colder.

“What happened?”

It’s Seungcheol who answers. A frown embeds itself on his brow. “Joshua, do you know where the Inquisitor is?”

“I don’t. Why would I?” Of course, Joshua has some guesses. Back in the swamp, perhaps. Searching for the traces of magic.

“We just don’t want to be overheard,” Wonwoo sighs. He stands up to toss wood into the fireplace, even as it’s unlit.

“You’re both acting quite strangely.”

Wonwoo holds out his hand, and it’s just the same grease-stained hand, delicate fingers, calloused skin, the way it always is — until Joshua sees the ice crystals under his nails.

“No.” He had tried so hard to compartmentalize his time with the hunters from the life he has in the swamp, and a shard of ice pierces through both of them. It’s such a familiar sight.

The Magistrate had smiled at first. Joked about it. “ _And I always thought Jihoon was the cold-hearted one here! Must be something in the air. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Let’s keep walking. It’s a long road ahead._ ”

And Joshua had wanted to say ‘no’ then, wanted to tell him to go see a doctor, that it wasn’t _natural_ to find ice under his nails, but that would have been insubordination, and Joshua would never have done that.

The leash was too tight around his neck to ever do that.

Wonwoo swallows. “I noticed it this morning. I don’t feel any pain, or chill or symptoms, I don’t feel different at all, so maybe it’s not—”

“There’s nothing else it can be.” There’s never anything else it can be.

Winter had made a home inside Joshua’s skin. It had been an adjustment to gaze upon the veins in his palm and not recoil at the knowledge that the blood that flowed through was cooled. Recurring nightmares haunted him, ones where he goes back to the Academy, explains everything with nothing but the truth, and they kill him anyway.  Because the Magistrate is dead. He brought the disease there. He’s infectious. Damaged.

And yet, he learnt to accept it. Seungkwan would always be there to help on the days where his lips would crack. Warmth resounds through their house. Joshua had long since accepted his life was tied to Seungkwan, that without him, he’d succumb to the illness that lurks underneath.

Crystals under Wonwoo’s nails was not something that Joshua would accept.

He wasn't involved. He doesn't deserve this.

“It’s not because of me,” Joshua says, cringing at his choice of words. “It is the Blue Frost, but it’s not from me. The Inquisitor noticed the traces of the Frost in the swamp. I don’t know how he managed to... infect you.” But that’s just not the whole truth. It is because of Joshua, isn’t it? The disease would not have even exited if Joshua hadn’t lived here.

“What am I supposed to do?” Wonwoo asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Go to Seungkwan,” Joshua answers immediately. “He knows how to help, the sooner the better, it hasn’t progressed far at all—”

It’s Seungcheol who interjects. “Wouldn't the hunters expect that to happen?”

They would.

“Magic leaves traces,” Joshua says, realization drawing on him like a dark cloud overhead. “If Seungkwan cures him, there’ll be unmistakable trail that leads directly to where he is. At such close proximity, they’d find him in minutes.” Even if he ran, he’d never be fast enough.

Wonwoo's fingers fiddle with his earring.

“It’s just Wonwoo, he’s one person. It would be so easy to smuggle him into the house,” Seungcheol tries to rationalize. “We could coordinate something.”

Magic doesn’t work like that. Hunters don’t work like that.

“The Inquisitor knows he's a healer,” Joshua says. "Knows that he wouldn't let someone around him die if he could do anything to prevent it." Before there was Jeonghan, before they called him Golden Boy, there was the youngest Inquisitor, and Seokmin wore that title with pride. Deserved. For all the blood-splattered clothes, for all the condescending smirks, for the sheer delicacy he displays in his own affection towards Soonyoung — the fact remains: such an accomplished Inquisitor at such a young age possessed that same sort of intellect that sets Jeonghan apart from his cohort.

“Then, what?” Seungcheol asks. 

Seungcheol is a figure of authority, but it never felt that way to Joshua. To Joshua, his superiors wore plentiful rings and spoke harshly or not at all. That’s not just Seungcheol at all. He smiles a lot, he shares food easily, and always has a kind word to say about everyone. He was a leader by compassion, not fear, not confusion.

He looks to Joshua for answers now.  “What do we do?”

“I can’t get help,” Wonwoo murmurs. He sinks back into the plush of the couch, staring down at his shoes. 

“I’m not going to let you die,” Joshua snaps, faster and harsher than he intended. “And neither will Seungkwan.”

And then he pauses. Lets himself consider the gravity of that statement. Seungkwan would never let Wonwoo die. Seungkwan was a healer who prioritized the wellbeing of others over himself, and Seungkwan’s plants have been dying around him as he taps into his own life force to care for the village. Then what of Wonwoo, the blacksmith, one of Seungkwan’s closest friends, a companion he treasures dearly?

No, Wonwoo would not perish, not at the hands of the Frost. Seungkwan would ensure that.

The Inquisitor has not left room for error.

“Does Seungkwan know?” Seungcheol asks, voice measured.

His head starts to throb. “If he finds out, it’s not a question of whether or not he’ll survive,” Joshua mutters. “It’ll be a definite.”

“And what do you propose we do instead? Let the Frost take over him?” Seungcheol’s voice is stiff, more than Johua had ever heard it before. “Give up Wonwoo if it means Seungkwan remains alive?”

He almost replies, and then halts himself.

The idea of trading lives, of valuing the healer over the blacksmith, it’s a dangerous game to play. It’s one they teach at the Academy. _Kill the witch, because the witch will kill the town. Weigh up the cost of human lives, and be prepared to bear the burden of that_.

“How long do I have left?” It’s Wonwoo who asks now, voice shaky and uncertain.

“Time. You have time,” Joshua answers. That much is true. With only traces under his nails, the Frost has barely set in, not even scraped the surface. Yet, Joshua has no indication of how rapid it will spread, no idea of when even blinking will be hard.

“Joshua,” Seungcheol says. “You need to tell me what you’re thinking. This isn’t what I’m used to. I don’t know how magic works. You need to help me understand.”

“Seungkwan can’t die.” This is a fact. Seungkwan is the most powerful witch Joshua has ever seen. Turns silver into ash. Beckons flowers to bloom in the palm of his hand. Drives away the Frost itself with a touch. With his death would be a loss the world would never recover from/

Wonwoo nods. “I agree.” He swallows. “If I have to… if I need to…” Words fail him. “I’ve seen Seungkwan heal. I’ve seen him bring people back from the brink of death. That matters. That’s important. That—”

“Wonwoo,” Seungcheol says.

“The hunters are tired,” Wonwoo says, and he’s looking straight at Joshua. “I’ve noticed it. You have too.”

It’s not just the hunters, Joshua wants to say. Exhaustion continues to weigh down on him.

“To do something so reckless, to harm a civilian… it’s not something they’d do lightly,” Joshua says. He doesn’t like the idea that he’s making excuses for the Order, attempting to give them mercy when none such exists. “They’ve put thought into this. It must be their last effort.”

Missions fail. Joshua tries not to think about the desperation in Jeonghan’s eyes, how intensified it would be if he’s told to walk away.

“Then that’s it,” Wonwoo says quietly, so quietly it takes Joshua a moment to disentangle himself from his thought. “If I die, they’ll leave. There’ll be nothing to link any kind of healer to the area.”

“That’s not happening,” Joshua says. His voice comes out high and strained. “No, no there’s an alternative, I know there is, I just need to figure it out. I have time. I’ll— I’ll figure something out.”

“Joshua,” Seungcheol says. “Where are you going?”

He hadn’t realized he stood up.

 

“I’d have thought you’d forgotten about me, Joshua,” Seungkwan says. Darkness surrounds the attic, and Joshua had struggled to maneuver his way up here to begin with. Not even a candle is lit - and yet, there’s the light that comes from Seungkwan’s sparkling eyes as he blinks them open, bathing the room in shimmering gold. Magical.

“Seungkwan,” Joshua says. Guilt consumes his words. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

Seungkwan’s always had a dramatic streak at the best of times, but there was an element of self-awareness to it. Seungkwan knew he was acting out, knew he was being unreasonable, and depending on how much time Joshua was willing to give to his particular temper tantrum, would either fizzle out or succumb to reason. This is an altogether different situation.

In the grander scheme of things, it doesn’t matter how much Seungkwan knows. He knows enough to know that Joshua has come here to ask forgiveness.

“Seungkwan,” Joshua says. Tries to remind himself that this is the same witch he’s seen everyday for the past four years, the same one who shared apple cores with him, who smiles when it rains, who pinches the cheeks of every child he sees. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to talk to you again.”

When Seungkwan looks at Joshua, there’s very little he can hide.

“You aren’t a coward, Joshua,” Seungkwan replies, disappointment thick in his voice. “So why are you acting like one?”

Excuses bubble at the tips of his lips like a sink overflowing. He says nothing, tamping it back. Seungkwan sits up, looks straight at Joshua, and it’s difficult to discern the rest of his expression, his face bathed in shadow, but it’s enough to see his glowing golden eyes flush with despondency.

“Seungkwan, I’m trying to keep you alive,” he whispers.

“By not telling me anything? Not even mentioning to me that there is an Inquisitor outside our doorstep? Do you really think that’s keeping me safe?” He speaks fast, like he does when he’s angry, like he has so much to say and his own vocal cords are holding him back. He snaps his fingers and the attic lights up.

And Joshua’s heart aches.

The pudgy warmth of Seungkwan’s cheeks has receded to hollowness. Blonde hair is loosely and limply arranged, and his eyes hang with dark circles. It would have been ridiculous to assume that weeks of hiding would have any sort of positive effect on Seungkwan, but Joshua had not realized how abruptly his health had declined since the last time they spoke.

Or perhaps, Joshua just hadn’t noticed. Occupied with his own problems.

Physical affection does not come easy to Joshua, not like it does for Seungkwan, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Joshua steps forward, and cradles Seungkwan against his chest, holds him tightly. Breathes in that delicate blend of herbs that always surrounds him. Seungkwan is rigid at first, stiff with justified anger, but he melts in a moment, lonely for touch.

“You’re a fool if you think I’ll forgive you just because you gave me one hug,” Seungkwan mutters into Joshua’s shirt, and Joshua laughs despite himself.

“I wouldn’t expect any different,” Joshua replies. He allows himself a few more moments in the embrace, to enjoy the warmth that Seungkwan radiates. Whether it is an effect of his magic, or if it’s just of the person himself — but Joshua has come to associate it with his hugs.

He steps back, sits down on the floor, and looks up at Seungkwan still seated on the bed. “I’ll tell you everything.” Not quite a lie, but he tests the waters.

“You’re already late,” Seungkwan replies, and thwacks Joshua against the side of his head, ignoring his yelp. “Wonwoo visited me more than you ever bothered to. Really? You were just not going to mention any of this to me?”

“Ouch!”

“ _Joshua_.”

The atmosphere had lightened in these brief moments, and Joshua feels like the second he starts speaking, his words weight the air with lead. “The Inquisitor’s name is Seokmin, and he’s clever. He’s more clever than I would have thought.”

“They don’t know who I am?” Seungkwan asks.

“Not at all. He…” Joshua hesitates. “He reprimanded Jeonghan for the lack of concrete information he has. He has no personal investment in this investigation though. I just think he doesn’t like Jeonghan.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, but says nothing more. Waits for Joshua to continue.

“They all seem tired.”

“I wonder what that feels like,” Seungkwan replies, laughing hoarsely.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Joshua says. “What has Wonwoo told you? All I can really do is fill in the gaps.”

He’s so cautious. Whether or not Seungkwan knows about the Frost is yet to be seen, but Joshua will not be the one to tell him — all too aware of how Seungkwan will let all rationality and self-preservation fade away in the pursuit of the health of his loved ones.

“He told me that you have been spending a lot of time with them.” There’s no judgement in his tone. Just naked curiosity.

“I have,” Joshua says. “There’s been… complications.”

“Do they know who you are?” Seungkwan asks, eyes wide with concern.

“No. No they don’t. It’s…” It never used to be like this. It used to be easy to talk to Seungkwan. Joshua never had to feel like he needed to hold information back. “Seungkwan, don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll hit you again if you say that.”

Joshua’s smile is weak. “I appreciate your concern but whatever they do to me is not important. I’ve been spending time with them, attempting to figure out the Inquisitor’s plans. He’s discovered traces of the Blue Frost.”

Seungkwan’s never been good at hiding his emotions. And perhaps that’s why when Joshua sees the absence of shock, he knows that this is not new information to Seungkwan.

“Seungkwan?”

“Joshua, I know.” It hurts to see sobriety this vivid on Seungkwan’s face. “Did you think I wouldn’t sense it? How long are you going to try and keep me alive? When are you going to give me up?”

Defeat sounds out in Seungkwan’s words.

“Never.” It’s unquestionable. His eyebrows furrow in conviction. “I’m not letting you die on their pyre.”

“What’s the alternative? Joshua, you’ve tried very hard,” Seungkwan says kindly. His eyes seem melancholy. “But what is left to do? I can feel the traces in Wonwoo’s veins all the way from here. You always tell me I’m the most powerful witch you’ve ever seen — did you really think you could hide something like this from me?” Seungkwan’s hand grips Joshua’s own.

“Give me time, Seungkwan,” Joshua says. “The Frost hasn’t spread far. We both know that.”

“Joshua,” Seungkwan begins. 

“Please. Time. That’s all I need,” Joshua says, gripping his hand tighter. It’s warm, radiant as he always is.

Seungkwan’s eyes sparkle like the stars were plucked into his iris. Even the idea that they could be closed one day is one Joshua is not prepared to live with.

“I know I can talk to Jeonghan, I can do something, you just have to give me time.”

“Joshua,” Seungkwan says, not unkindly. “Take as long as you want, but realize I’m not going to let Wonwoo die.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

The sound causes Joshua to look up. He had been staring at his hand in his lap, as if willing the ring to talk, the sudden change in lighting causes his eyes to squint. He’d just been twisting it, twisting it, twisting it, as if attempting to coax it to life. “What are you sorry for?” Joshua asks.

Sobriety does not suit itself on Seungkwan’s face, Joshua thinks to himself. “I’m sorry I couldn’t heal your commander. Your Magistrate.” Joshua’s heart is far too fragile to handle the way it aches. Seungkwan presses on, “The Frost had spread everywhere. It was too late. I could only barely heal you.”

“The fact that you were able to save me is more than I could have ever asked for. It’s a miracle,” Joshua says, hesitant. The knowledge that he’s a witch is ever-present, but he cannot deny that if it wasn’t for the witch, he would have been dead. He keeps his voice quiet, not wanting to alert the carriage driver. While the trader seemed entirely uninterested in the matters of witches and witch hunters, only interested in the horse Joshua had given him as payment for the trip, Joshua still did not want to invite the topic. “And I intend to meet my part of the debt.”

His strength had started returning, but the pain had not yet ceased, ice still manifesting under his nails, on the tips of his eyelashes.

Seungkwan frowns. “It’s not a debt, I told you, I don’t want you to _repay_ me.”

He had that made clear numerous times. In a refusal of everything that Joshua knew of humanity, Seungkwan would not accept any currency. Joshua offered him his horse, offered him his sword, offered him every object of monetary wealth to his name in the Citadel and Seungkwan had declined them all.

“If you don’t want anything, what do you _need_?” Joshua had asked. He had been disgusting then, his mouth drooling and dripping with the melting ice. Seungkwan wiped it off with the sleeve of his robe, raising an eyebrow, never his voice.

“I need you to stop trying to speak, for one. You need to rest.”

“Tell me.” Joshua would not remain in the debt of a witch. His pride would never allow for such a dent in his armour. “There has to be something. Where were you planning on going when you came across me?”

Seungkwan had stilled. “I was planning on going to the Black Mire.”

“I haven’t heard of it,” Joshua answers.

“You wouldn’t have. It’s in the depths of the swamps. It’s dangerous.”

Joshua swallows. “Then I’ll escort you there myself. I’m weak now, but I’m a better swordsman than anyone else you’ll ever meet. I’ll see that you get there safely.”

“You don’t have to do that, Joshua,” Seungkwan says quietly. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”

“No, I do. I…” Joshua hesitates. Considers what he was about to say. He could scrunch up his words, pretend he didn’t intend on them at all, but for whose benefit? His commander was dead. There was no one in his entire organization that could help him. He was alone. And the truth, the truth was something he could share. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Seungkwan blinks in confusion — and when realization dawns on him, his face sparkles, _actually sparkles_ , his irises a swirling cascade of gold. It’s unlike anything Joshua has ever seen. “I’m getting quite fond of you, Joshua. It’s going to be so sad when you leave. If all hunters were like you, I think I could quite like them!”

 

 

It was the hardest to remove the rings. They refused to relinquish the grip on his finger, and on his being. Foolishly, Joshua thought it would be the easiest. He was never particularly fond of jewellery, and while his new role as an active hunter meant he was gifted with golden necklaces, he never wore them. But that was understandable, those were cobbled together from the life-savings of peasants, why would Joshua wear the weight of such guilt? He has more than enough of that already. He had so many weapons, so many carefully crafted components of his uniform, surely something as simple as rings could be removed?

But his rings… _his rings_.

Loyalty is forged first, the start of the final fused set of rings, and it takes the longest, the furnace still heating up. Joshua stared into those flames until they hurt his eyes — and then he looked at Jeonghan instead. Their fingers interlocked then, bare skin touching bare skin for perhaps the last time, knowing graduation promised their departure across worlds. After loyalty, they forge obedience, and then it was excitement that Joshua felt in his throat as they craft the final ring. Eight years have washed away his childhood, but if all that remains is these rings, it will have been worth it.

Jeonghan leaves his hand and extends his own as the Order’s Blacksmith gestures him closer, and he winces when the rings slide on, still far too hot, but Joshua does not fear it, knows he’s experienced far worse pain and will continue to do so. And when it was his turn, it burned, his skin seared underneath the heat of the rings, blistered, but it was worth it, he was a _hunter_.

It hurt just as much to take them off. The skin underneath is just so bare, just so plain, and the rings, those are his rings, he gave up his entire _life_ for those rings, and now he was just going to toss them in a chest, let them rust?

The first represented loyalty, the second represents the Order, and the third represents obedience and it feels like he’s severing the virtues from his own heart when he locks them away.

Only hunters are permitted to wear the attire, and Joshua wasn’t a hunter. Not anymore. The day he took them off was the first day of an emptiness on his hand that never gets filled. 

 

  

 

Joshua makes it to the door of the inn, sun still rising, before he considers what his goal is with this particular visit. His shoe tangles in marshweed, and the brief interruption in his stride forces him to assess his situation before he barges into his room. He’d like to know what Jeonghan’s thinking, if he even realizes the danger of what he and his creed have unleashed upon the swamp - but also knows he needs to be prepared for the highly likely reality in which Jeonghan will refuse to tell him.

Joshua has to try. Seungkwan made himself clear. His self-preservation extends to only as long as he is the only one who will be hurt. Wonwoo is a casualty that he is not prepared to accept.

If he had been more perceptive, he would have noticed the horses, the conspicuous absence of them, rather. He would have noticed Levi, whining at him for attention, alone tied to the post. But Joshua did not, and knocked on the inn door, ready to enter. The door opened far too quickly to have it been as a result of Joshua himself, and he steps back.

Jeonghan’s eyes are as wild as the swamp surrounding them. He surveys Joshua with a mixture of shock and discomfort. And he says, perhaps, what Joshua had never expected Jeonghan to say to him. “Joshua, I can’t. Not now.”

Composure was built in Jeonghan. His posture is impeccable, his words enunciated, and perhaps in direct rebellion to the stereotype that long hair would be more difficult to manage, he keeps his ponytail neat, blonde carefully kept pinned back. That is not the case as Joshua looks at him now, his cloak haphazardly over his shoulder, as if thrown over him. His hair hangs loose and uncombed, and his boots are unbuckled.

He holds their gaze for a moment more, shakes his head, and rushes past.

Joshua reaches his hand out, grips Jeonghan by his elbow. “Jeonghan, are you okay?”

“Of course I am, I always am,” Jeonghan replies, eyes switching back and forth. “Joshua, leave me. Whatever you want, I’m certain we can discuss it later.”

The answer seems to be ‘no’.

“What’s going on, Jeonghan? Do you need help?” Joshua asks.

“None of the things I need help with are things that you’d be able to do,” Jeonghan replies.

“There’s shaving cream on the side of your cheek,” Joshua says, and this does cause Jeonghan to slow down, if just to wipe it away.

“Who the fuck leaves at fucking dawn?” Jeonghan mutters under his breath. “I was enjoying a moment of privacy and then the next thing I hear Soonyoung dragging his belongings down the floor, and I couldn’t exactly greet my Inquisitor wearing my bathrobe.”

“They’re leaving?” They wouldn’t leave, not now, their plan, they’ve just set everything in motion—

The person who answers is Soonyoung, glaring at Joshua with the same brand of derision that he had cultivated so painstakingly and personally over these past few weeks. “We are.”

“Oh,” is all Joshua manages to say, stopping to a halt.

“No need to look quite so devastated,” Soonyoung replies. “I’m certain you’ll see us again, Levi. After all, you’re just such a _fan_ of the Order.”

The use of his alias is jarring enough to shut Joshua up, and he looks to Jeonghan. He’s far too preoccupied to respond.

“Soonyoung, I spoke to Seokmin—”

“That’s _Inquisitor_ to you,” Soonyoung interjects. Jeonghan’s teeth grit shut, but he does not do more than nod in acquiesence.

“I spoke to the Inquisitor literally two nights ago, he told me he’d stay and help, he said that he had put things in motion and wanted to see them through, Soonyoung,” Jeonghan’s voice has reached a level of panic. “Soonyoung, you told me. Soonyoung, you said you wouldn’t leave me. You said you’d _help_.”

Jeonghan doesn’t beg. But it certainly seems like he’s coming close to that.

“Plans change, Jeonghan,” Soonyoung replies, not bothering to restrain his yawn. He’s busy wrapping supplies on one of the picnic tables near the entrance of the swamp, his horse next to him, already saddled. “The Inquisitor has decided he isn’t willing to wait for you. He’s got other priorities. And you surely can’t expect him to make the journey by himself?”

“Where is he?” Jeonghan asks. “Let me speak to him.”

“I don’t think he really wants to speak to you,” Soonyoung replies, his face curved in an unpleasant smile.

“ _I need to_.” There’s desperation in his voice.

Soonyoung gestures to the distance, where Seokmin sits next to the well, an alarmingly vast array of weapons laid out. “If he’s upset with you, don’t blame me.”

Jeonghan disappears in that instant, and Joshua wishes he could follow him, if just to support him silently. Faced alone with Soonyoung for the first time since the arrival of Seokmin, he’s nervous at first.

“I can’t say I’ll miss you,” Soonyoung says, contemplative. “So I won’t.” The feeling is reciprocated. “I look forward to never having to see your face ever again.”

Joshua figures he doesn’t have anymore to gain by keeping his distance, by keeping his words careful. They’re leaving. “Why didn’t you tell Seokmin the truth about my name?”

“That’s _Inquisitor_ to you,” he growls.

Joshua rolls his eyes. Can’t help but think Jeonghan would be proud of him for that. “And you’re very much aware my name is Joshua. I have to wonder what your reason behind this was.”

Soonyoung’s stance is defensive. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

“You don’t,” Joshua replies. “But I’m also very much aware of what you and your Inquisitor do in your private time.”

And then there’s a glimmer of what seems like fear in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jeonghan doesn’t know, does he?” Joshua presses on.

While the Order was not intrusive in the relationships between hunters, it did universally ban all fraternization between direct superiors and subordinates — and Joshua does have to consider there’s a reason _why_ they kept it from Jeonghan.

Soonyoung swallows. “You’ve got no power here. You have no authority, what do you think you’re going to get by blackmailing me?”

“I have no intention of doing anything,” Joshua replies cooly. It’s better like this, feels like he’s on equal footing with Soonyoung for the first time. He doesn’t need to hide behind lies. “But I think it’s worth saying that we can trust each other to keep our secrets, can we not?” And now it feels like he’s learning from Jihoon again, something he said a moment after bestowing his praise so many years ago. That a pact between enemies can be stronger than a pact between allies.

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck is going on between you and Jeonghan and I don’t care. But I know that my own success depends on his,” Soonyoung points. “I know the value of keeping my damn mouth shut. You should too.”

Joshua follows the trace of Soonyoung’s finger, back to the Inquisitor and Jeonghan. Their conversation is inaudible, but Jeonghan’s body language speaks far more. Pleading with open palms.

“I’ve known my Inquisitor for a long time, you know? I’m pretty sure I know what he’s saying.”

It’s bait, and Joshua bites into it. “What?”

“If Jeonghan doesn’t come back to the Citadel with that witch’s ashes under his fingernails, he better not come back at all.” Joshua turns to see Soonyoung’s carefully plastered smile.

Jeonghan’s dedication to the Order extends beyond that of expectations placed upon recruits. Since he was a child, he’s been loyal, unflinchingly so towards the organization he was promised to - and surely, it must hurt if Jeonghan even had a _clue_ of how much the people he considers closest to him grow to despise him.

“I can’t wait to be out of here,” Soonyoung mutters. “I hate this fucking swamp.”

“It probably doesn’t like you either,” Joshua says, maybe too quietly for him to even hear. It makes him feel better, though.

The Order is composed of individuals who value themselves and their own agenda more than the organization. And not for the first time, Joshua doesn’t think the Order ever deserved him.

Like a force of rain, Jeonghan storms towards Joshua. He disregards Soonyoung entirely, nails digging into Joshua’s hand, gripping him to the outside of the inn, absolute silence. When out of earshot, he drops his hand, and stares at Joshua. The sound of his breathing is the only one he can hear, and his hands curl into fists. The imprint of Jeonghan’s nails are still embedded in his palm. In light of all of this, he could be forgiven for assuming the emotion that strikes across Jeonghan’s face is anger.

It’s when he speaks, that Joshua realizes it’s not anger in the slightest.

“Do you still speak the native tongue?” Jeonghan asks in a rush. His eyes are blown wide, pupils so dark they’re almost black.

“Barely.”

“They’re leaving me,” Jeonghan says, panic in his voice. “Joshua, they’re leaving me. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do this alone. I can’t fail.”

It’s wonderful to hear the language of his homeland. It’s awful to hear it when Jeonghan seems mere seconds away from tears.

Rediscovering Jeonghan had been an exercise in changing expectations. Age had changed him, changed them both. It’s been difficult, realizing the differences that stemmed between them in the years they grew apart, reconciling the Jeonghan of his past with the one of the present. The one that Joshua remembered was a face still pudgy with youthfulness, with short blonde hair and a sharp tongue that hated talking to anyone who wasn’t Joshua. He was impulsive, driven to succeed, and lacked the social skills needed to ever establish bonds between his peers. And sometimes, Joshua could see flashes of this person, when Jeonghan would roll his eyes at Soonyoung, when he’d speak of his Inquisitor with the religious reverence that such a rank deserves. Jeonghan doesn’t seem like that now.

He seems like the child he was when Joshua met him the first time, when he didn’t even know his name, just his reputation. Small, fragile, lined with sharp edges, and dedicated to proving his family legacy — and so _alone_.  

“What do I do?” Jeonghan asks, and he sounds like he might break.

He could have the full possession of vocabularies of ten different languages, and Joshua would still say what he does in the same simple words. “Walk away, Jeonghan. You could walk away.”

A wish that only a fool would make, but Joshua whispers it into the atmosphere. Observes the way that Jeonghan’s face falls.

Jeonghan speaks plainly, like he used to back then. It leaves no ambiguity. “I can’t do that. You know I can’t.”

The reality of the world is unfair. The Order prides itself on its pyramid of organization, a sole High Inquisitor to rule over them all, the idea of clawing up the ranks is one that’s instilled from youth. But just as that, the Order is still unfair. The best hunter in the world could be dead at thirty, body left in some bandit camp, never to be found again. That’s one thing the Order never gave any priority towards — if people went missing, they stayed missing. No one bothered to look for someone most likely dead. Especially if they were just another hunter.

The world is unfair because Jeonghan stands here unsure of where to turn, eyes wide and glassy, and Joshua wishes he had the words to convince him that none of this matters. It never mattered.

But this isn’t about him, and he’s aware of one thing: he won’t let Jeonghan make a fool of himself.

Pride flows through Jeonghan’s lungs like it’s own breath. Painstakingly constructs his appearance to never falter. Jeonghan cares for the Order like it’s his own blood, _it is his own blood_ , and Joshua knows what the gossip grinders of the Citadel are like, knows that begging must have been the most difficult thing Jeonghan has ever had to do, and he did it in front of his _Inquisitor_. He won’t stand by and watch him suffer.

Joshua cares about him too much to let him do that.

“Don’t let them know, then. You’re better than them and you’ve always been. Don’t let them know you care,” Joshua says, dropping his voice. Words clunky with a barely used language, but meaning clear. He steps closer. Not because he wants to. He’d prefer to be further away. The other side of the universe seems enticing. “Don’t let them know it gets to you.”

The brief touch of Joshua’s hand against Jeonghan’s own is warm. It doesn’t mean anything beyond a show of support in a more physical way. It _feels_ like something though, Joshua’s chest erupts into flames. Jeonghan blinks, locks his jaw in place and looks up. Like the Jeonghan that Joshua has grown to know.

“You’re right.”

He wishes he wasn’t. He wishes he didn’t feel like he was betraying himself saying this. Illusions of nobility were built up around what remained of his past, and what remained was unwavering devotion to Jeonghan. If he needed help, if he needed _someone_ , it all falls down around Joshua, as he focuses on that singular goal. “I am.”

Desire thrums in his ears when Jeonghan interlocks their hands together, squeezing tighter than he has to, as if he lives in fear if his grip is too loose, Joshua would flee.

“Don’t let them know,” Jeonghan repeats.

Joshua’s gaze is fixed on the movement of his lips. “Exactly. You’re better than them. They… they don’t care, but Jeonghan…” he gives up. Jeonghan knows what he wants to say. “You know you’re better than them.”

Hesitation flashes across Jeonghan’s face, and any emotion is preferable to the crippling hopelessness that overtook him moments ago. “How was it so easy for you to leave?”

“ _It wasn’t_.” He thinks, for a moment, about telling him everything, about the Frost, about the Magistrate, about seeing his own death in front of him — but then Jeonghan speaks, his accent pulling through the native language he speaks.

“When you left the Order, did you have to take my heart with you?”

Air slices around them, the cause of which is a literal blade. Silver sparks in the rising sun. Joshua jumps back, heart beating erratically. Seokmin circles around them, waving the sword excitedly, as if he wasn’t mere inches away from chopping off the tip of their noses. “What do you think? I hardly use this particular blade, it’s so _heavy_ , but my other one is in desperate need of repair, and I trust no one except my own forgers at the Citadel.”

His breathing returns to normal. Seokmin hadn’t heard anything, and even if he did, clearly couldn’t comprehend it. Not for the first time, Joshua is grateful that his home language is so esoteric. 

“That should be suitable, Inquisitor,” Jeonghan replies, switching back to the language Seokmin speaks with ease. “And understandable as well — only the best for someone of your stature.”

Joshua realizes how frightening Jeonghan is. How easy it is for him to put on a new personality with the ease of his cloak, how mere moments ago he was reduced to tears, and it took him less than minutes to reclaim that perfect composure he carries around like a second skin. His tone is respectful, playful even, and Joshua might be forgiven for wondering if any of what happened had occurred at all. The phantom weight against his skin might have been a figment of his imagination. Jeonghan is a chameleon, and the colours and patterns he displays shift with each and every instant.

Jeonghan is frightening, and Joshua isn’t scared of him, he’s sorry for him, and that’s what worries him more than anything else.

“What do you think, Levi? Do you like this sword?”

It’s sharp, and unembellished. It could kill ten people, and Seokmin wouldn’t care to keep it. “It seems perfect for your purposes.”

Seokmin is decked out in his riding gear. “Well, if that’s sorted, we should prepare to leave. Would not want to be caught in this awful afternoon sun. Levi, will you be seeing us off?”

There’s not much choice in the matter.

 

The Inquisitor curls his finger in, beckoning Soonyoung further. His hand is calloused, and the grip with which he cards his fingers through his steel hair is tender, affectionate even. His thumb rakes the shell of his ear as he whispers to him. It’s impossible to discern what they are saying, but Soonyoung exhales, and nods solemnly.

“I’ll do the final checks on the horses,” Soonyoung says straightening, and Seokmin’s hand falls from his hair.

Seokmin nods. “Do hurry along.” As Soonyoung moves to leave, Seokmin holds out his hand, tracing a path down Soonyoung’s arm. Their eyes lock. “Thank you, Soonyoung.”

“Of course, my Lord Inquisitor.”

Jeonghan surely must be immune to the feeling of intrusion he gets from watching them for only a moment.

“I wish you safe travels, Inquisitor,” Jeonghan says. He smiles dazzlingly, that smile he reserves for the rest of the world. It’s a stark contrast to the man he was minutes ago. There’s still some signs that permeate through the veneer, the way his nails press into the skin of his palms. He seems almost unbreakable, but not quite. “I look forward to seeing you at the Citadel in the future.”

“Of course. We all see that you’re destined for great things, that you’ll become a _legend_. You know I’ll be in the front row for your enthronement,” Seokmin says with a broad smile, and it’s a nice thing to say, but Joshua also can detect the absence of sincerity. “And of course, may you make the Order proud — as you always do.”

It sounds like a thinly-veiled threat.

“You’ll be fine, Jeonghan, I know you will,” Seokmin claps him on the back. “I’ve helped you all the way I can. The rest is up to you. After all, I would never want to meddle in _your_ investigation.”

Jeonghan swallows, but his composure never drops.

“Before I leave,” Seokmin says, “Could I have a word with you?” He’s looking directly at Joshua. There’s no ambiguity about who he’s talking to. Jeonghan still pretends otherwise.

“Inquisitor?” he says, and Seokmin raises a perfectly defined brow.

“You have no need to be present. I’m aware he’s your _responsibility_ , but I’ll only need a few minutes of his time,” Seokmin mimicks his voice, laughing at himself, and gestures for Joshua to come closer. “Dismissed.”

The corners of Jeonghan’s mouth twitch.

Joshua craves the comfort in numbers, that hope that even if the only other person next to him was Jeonghan, that it was someone, that it could diminish Seokmin’s interrogation. While Joshua is content in his disguise, he fears his own ignorance, a slip-up in conversation could be detrimental. And of course, alone, there’s nothing to focus on. Nothing for the Inquisitor to analyze except the defected witch hunter in front of him. And Seokmin is good, Seokmin had to be good. He’s proven mastery over the Frost, and confident enough to leave the completion of his own.

“Walk with me, Levi,” Seokmin says, snapping his fingers. “Let me really take in the sights of your precious swamp because I can assure you, I’m never coming back here.” Laughs at his own joke.

It’s not much of a choice. Seokmin has no direction in mind, skirting around the main path, seemingly walking to wherever his whims direct him. There’s a noticeable absence of people out at the moment. It’s equally as likely to be as a result of how early it is, his uniform or his aura that repels everyone else.

“I must thank you personally for the help you’ve given to Jeonghan and Soonyoung while on their investigation,” Seokmin says, his voice taking on the tone of a storyteller. “Despite our organization’s pledge to justice and protection, it gets difficult. The common folk don’t realize the burden on our shoulders. An exception like you is one that is treasured.”

Joy frothes inside of him, uncontrollably. Approval from an Inquisitor is more intoxicating than barrel-fermented moonshine, and Joshua clings to the words of praise like they’re a lifeline. He bows his head.

Eight years of indoctrination do not disappear merely because he took off his jewellery.

“It was Jeonghan who insisted upon coming here of all places,” Seokmin says, his boot kicking into the soil. “His only ‘source’ were the whispers of peasants. My fellow Inquisitors all but laughed in his face. Some actually did.” His eyes crinkle up at the memory. It’s pleasant to look at, if it wasn’t for the cause behind his smile. “There’s a saying back at the Citadel that not even God would get His boots muddy walking through the drudges of Velen.”

He’s expecting a reaction here, and Joshua manages a weak grin.

 “I was his last hope, you know? Jeonghan begged me to endorse him,” Seokmin recounts with amusement. A chicken pecks at the ground near his feet. “The other Inquisitors thought I was mad for agreeing to let him go on this investigation. I have my issues with Jeonghan certainly but regardless of anything else, he’s a good hunter, and I can admire that. Even enough to send _my_ best hunter with him.”

“Soonyoung?” Joshua clarifies.

Seokmin nods. While Joshua wouldn’t say the look in his eyes softens, it appears the thought of Soonyoung does have some physical effect. The corners of his lips curve up. “He’s been under my command since he graduated. Before that, even,” he says after further consideration. “I’ve seen his improvement. He has the skills found in a warrior. And, yet, even if he was grossly incompetent, falling upon his own sword, he’s better than every single one of my deceased squadron. He has loyalty that’s unseen in so many.” 

The picture that Jeonghan paints of Soonyoung seems different to the one he hears from his Inquisitor.

“But enough of Soonyoung, I’m here to talk about _you_ ,” Seokmin replies, slaps Joshua on the back with a little too much force to be friendly. “Jeonghan is a person of pride. Soonyoung perhaps even more. The fact that they were willing to consult you speaks of your prowess, your knowledge. For someone from a vile swamp at the edge of the world, you’ve surpassed my expectations.”

Such praise from the highest authority in the land is hard to come by. It would be customary to kiss the hand of the Inquisitor, supplicate in gratitude but the second Joshua looks down and gazes upon the thick band of silver that encircles Seokmin’s middle finger, his lungs deflate.

Five fused rings. One for loyalty, one for obedience, and between them is the Order’s ring, the one with the insignia emblazoned over the polished metal. That’s the same style Joshua had, it’s the one that Jeonghan has. And, with the enthronement of an Inquisitor came two additional bands, the ones at the start and the end, that complete the circles of five — representing power, wielded over the organization, and represent duty, an ever-present reminder. The burden of command is heavy, after all, and so are the rings. 

And then there’s the symbol of vanity on his thumb, one final ring, independent of the rest, a notch in the center. The mark of an Inquisitor.

“May I speak plainly, Levi?” Seokmin asks, running a hand through his head of reddish bronze hair. “I’m not nearly as formal as my fellow Inquisitors. Must be the age difference, it’s a good few years you know?”

Joshua is very much aware. He nods. “Yes.” Acquiescence seems to be the best strategy.

“I’m aware that Jeonghan isn’t pleased that I’m taking Soonyoung with me.” The image of his broken expression comes to mind before he can stop it. “I’m certain I’ll be the subject of some very colourful cursing once I leave. I don’t particularly care what he thinks. Regardless, I would appreciate if you’d continue to help him.”

“Help him?” Joshua repeats.

“Of course. As you are doing now, as you’ve done to this day,” Seokmin says, brows furrowing in disbelief at how simple the question is. “The Order will of course, reward you handsomely.”

They could fill ten different oceans with a thousand gold coins for every mile, and it wouldn’t compare to the loss the world would face if the light ran out of Seungkwan’s eyes.

Doesn’t seem to sincere to think that, however, not when he speaks to the reigning Inquisitor promising him blood money.

“Jeonghan’s always struggled to play nice with others. Especially outsiders,” Seokmin says, in the tone one would use to describe a particularly meddlesome pet. “He’s gotten better, certainly, but I was highly surprised that anyone could manage to claw into his cold heart.”

“I’m honoured to help,” is all Joshua can say, all that Seokmin would want to hear anyway. He wouldn’t care about everything else, wouldn’t care that Joshua feels like his skin is crawling off his body.

“I saw you talking to him now. He was in a state of sorts when he came to me, saying he needed my help, literally _begging_ me not to go,” Seokmin says, thinking aloud. “Whatever you managed to say to him certainly cheered him up, and that’s impressive in itself.”

Seokmin gazes over his shoulder at the horses assembled and nods to himself. “I’m glad to be rid of this horrible place. I can’t think of a worse place to live. No offense.” It’s still offensive.

They’ve rounded past Seungcheol’s house now, and Joshua briefly wonders where he is, if he’s seeing their walk together. Perhaps he’s with Wonwoo, monitoring him.

 “You know, Levi, there’s a nickname among us at the Citadel for Jeonghan. We call him ‘Golden Boy’.”

“He has the hair for it,” Joshua says faintly, unsure why he’s become privy to the current gossip circulating Tower Dexter.

Seokmin laughs, teeth gleaming. “Yes, that’s certainly part of the reason. But there’s more to it, really. He’s just _so_ exceptional he is, you know, only child of the longest direct line of hunters, excelled since training, conquered every limitation, etcetera, etcetera, has a long list of achievements I don’t care enough to memorize.” What he says is polite. The mockery behind his words says otherwise.

“That’s impressive,” Joshua says, like he doesn’t already know all of this, like he doesn’t already have Jeonghan’s lifepath running through his own veins.

“Set to break my standing record of the youngest Inquisitor.”

Perhaps Seokmin doesn’t want to lose the achievement? It would certainly be one of the explanations as to why he’s insistent on taking Soonyoung with him.

“Levi, I do worry that you might think I dislike Jeonghan, or harbour some sort of resentment,” Seokmin says, pausing in his stride. Concern crosses his face, and he holds out a hand on Joshua’s shoulder. “I want to make it _abundantly_ clear that I absolutely do.”

“That’s,” Joshua says, struggling to find an appropriate response. “Well, noted.”

“That being said, let me make it clear that I want him to be Inquisitor. In fact, I’d say I have a lot hanging on that,” Seokmin says, and his voice takes on a tone of menace. “And for that to happen, certain events need to take place. Jeonghan needs to emerge from this hovel successful with a newly lit pyre so that he can be enthroned and join my rank. Everyone at the Citadel will be so thrilled, they’ll hold banquets in his honours and worship his feet. There’ll be a new Inquisitor. It’s quite important that this happens.” He smiles with too many teeth. “I’d very much appreciate your assistance in this matter.”

“Lord Inquisitor,” Joshua says, and the honorific tastes sour on his lips. “I’m not capable.”

 “Oh, don’t sell yourself short now!” Seokmin enthuses, stroking Joshua’s arm. “We’ve really gotten to know each other in these past few days. I’m certain we have faith in each other’s capabilities.”

“I have to ask, Lord Inquisitor, why you’re placing so much trust in me,” Joshua says, swallowing.

Seokmin smiles. “Your reputation, I think.”

And his brow furrows as he struggles to decode what Seokmin means by that, but the Inquisitor is kind enough to elaborate unprompted.

“I know it’s been a while since you were there, but there’s this saying that goes around the Citadel.”

Joshua can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

“The easiest way to kill a witch? Fire. The easiest way to kill a witch hunter? _Letting them off their leash_.”

The Inquisitor’s voice is carefully composed. “I’ve heard very interesting accounts of you. Certainly, your loyalty is _questionable_ — your skill and proficiency isn’t. Even after years of inactivity, you retain both arcane and academic knowledge. The reports from my hunters tell me you maintain excellent swordsmanship. Your investigation skills prove themselves and I’d even say your ability to maintain a lie is admirable,” Seokmin stops walking to smile like he’s ready to eat. “You’re just as good as when you left us, Joshua.”  

Joshua never told the Inquisitor his name. Joshua never did, wouldn’t, didn’t take the risk. His throat tightens around a phantom noose.

He continues walking, and Joshua remains frozen until the sight of the Inquisitor’s gesture, of the two fingered command. He realizes now the significance: it shows off the rings.

“Inquisitor,” Joshua manages. He couldn’t have known, what reason would he have to pretend, why didn’t he just kill him when he had the chance—

“Now, why are you so shocked, Joshua? Would I really forget who was in the front row of _my own enthronement_?” Seokmin’s teeth reminds him of razor blades. “It was the most important day of my life! I remember every detail, understandably so. Would you expect I forget something like that?”

There’s no explanation for why Joshua isn’t already kneeling with a sword at his throat. There’s no explanation for why Joshua isn’t strung up by the branches of the tree. He’s imagined his death so much, he doesn’t realize that he’s already facing it.

“It really is divine providence that of all unturned, swampy rocks, Jeonghan found you under this one,” Seokmin comments. “I can’t say I paid too much attention to you two, I had my own things to do, but it surely must be nice to have a reunion after all this time. Would not want that to be punctuated by tragedy, of course.”

“Lord Inquisitor,” Joshua exhales, and that’s all that he can say. If he wants him to beg, then that’s what Joshua will do, but if his death is already  written, then he’d like to know now.

“You worked with the Magistrate, right? Tragic about his death.” Seokmin’s eyebrows are furrowed like he’s trying to remember something he’d almost forgotten. “After you two disappeared from the face of the world, it was sort of a passing chore for me to figure out what happened. Was in the area of course.” He gestures around him. “Found the traces of the Frost everywhere I went and I can put two and two together. I had _assumed_ you’d perished as well, and it’s a delightful surprise that you didn’t!” Seokmin claps Joshua on the back like he did a good job. “When this is all over, I’d love to have a chat with you and Jihoon about how you managed to escape such a pervasive infection.”

The Western Ramparts, Seokmin’s domain, is a few hours ride away from the Black Mire, and while Joshua knows this information objectively, it’s another matter altogether to realize how _close_ Seokmin had been, enough to piece together the fate of his Magistrate. 

“Now, I’m glad we have this newfound honesty between us. We can work together! We have similar goals! _I_ would like to go back to my Citadel and not have the gawking eyes of the Towers on my every move. _You_ would not like your dear friend to fail, and be impaled upon his own ambition.” Pauses. “I’d also hazard a guess that you’d not like to be impaled upon the sword that you’ve just helped me pick.”

It’s nestled against the side of his body. His fingers linger on the hilt now, a subtle reminder.

“Joshua, not everyone gets a second chance like you do.” There’s something reminiscent of compassion in his voice. “I wouldn’t throw this one away.”

He already had his second chance, he wants to say, he rebuilt himself from nothing in this swamp. He was given a second chance and it came from a witch and he found more purpose in this filthy swamp than he did in the marble halls of the Citadel.  

“I’ll look forward to seeing you back in Tower Dexter when this is all over. I’m certain we can find a lovely spot for you under Inquisitor Jeonghan’s leadership, and we won’t need to ask too many questions at all, will we? You just make sure that you can let that happen. Can’t be too difficult to find a witch, right?” The smile slips off Seokmin’s face, replaced with grim sobriety. He’s witnessed a thousand death with those bright eyes. He’d have had to. He’s an Inquisitor. “You managed to find Jeonghan, after all.”

He waits for a response from Joshua that never comes, rendered speechless. Seokmin raises his hand, and pats strokes Joshua’s chin, like he’s a well-behaved animal. “I know you won’t disappoint me.”

 “Serve until only the embers of the Order remain,” Seokmin says, and he smiles one final time, grinning so broadly his eyes shut.

And then he leaves. He exchanges a final word with Jeonghan, saddles himself in, and regards Soonyoung for a long time, pausing to clear a twig out of his hair. And then he’s gone. There’s no fanfare, there’s no celebration, there’s no salutes. He tugs on the reigns, his horse neighs, and hooves fade into the distance — and the Inquisitor leaves.

Joshua faces no trial, there’s no jury, there’s no execution. Perhaps it’s even worse. The Inquisitor left him with an assignment.

 

Jeonghan taps him on the shoulder, breaks the spellbound silence. “What did he say to you?” Joshua turns and his heart catches in his throat. It’s unfair how dazzling Jeonghan looks, the morning sun blossoming down on him. It’s like when he was created, a thousand minutes was spent on each and every one of his features, it had to have been personally carved. His stormy eyes are wide with concern. “Is everything okay?”

Jeonghan’s hand is on Joshua’s arm, unthinkingly, as natural as the air that passes between them. The sensation is warm and soothing. Dangerous, too, because Joshua could grow too used to this, could start to enjoy it too much. His own hand closes over Jeonghan’s, and he can feel the cold metal underneath his skin. Joshua sees the chains behind the three fused rings on Jeonghan’s finger and if he could, he’d rip each and every link, but Joshua’s always been weak, doesn’t think he’d ever be strong enough.

When he closes his eyes, mementos flash through his mind of towers rising from the rocky depths of the ground, of a silver ring sliding onto his finger, and the curl of radiant blonde hair illuminated by the setting sun. There’s a wound in his chest.

“I sometimes wish that I never found you again,” Joshua says, eyes fluttering open. “Rather would have you as a rose-tinted memory than as a regret.”

Naked honesty feels refreshing, even if the air he breathes hurts on the way down. That’s what Seokmin said, wasn’t it? There’s no point in lies, in obscurities. State the truth, and it is the truth that sometimes Joshua wishes they never reunited at all. He doesn’t tell Jeonghan about the other things he wishes for.

Jeonghan jerks his hand back. The sun shines on the Mire on a new morning, the tree around them green with life, but there’s nothing but midnight in Jeonghan’s expression.

“It was never meant to be this complicated,” Jeonghan says. Quietly, like an apology. He’s holding half his sentence back again. “I missed you so much.” Hesitates. “I didn’t want you to end up involved. I didn’t know it would end up like this.”

His shoulders slouch under his burdens. Joshua would take them from him if he could.

“I do apologize for coming here, for disrupting the life you’ve so clearly tried to build up. You need to believe me, I never wanted it to be like this. Thought it would be easier, had these ideas in my head. Thought I could do this. But Joshua?” Jeonghan sounds unsure, like he’s speaking words he’s never tried to say aloud before. Like they’re choking against the leash.

“I _tried_ to forget about you. I failed in that as well.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i must say, i have been very excited about this particular reveal for a while. remember to please feed your local writer with feedback, it's much appreciated! 💗⚔️ be sure to check out the visuals thread and the spotify playlist, and thanks so much for reading!


	8. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we return to the swamp!

Graduates had no say in the matter of their assignments. Certainly, each of the newest litter of hunters had dreams swirling in their minds of the glory in joining a crusade, of serving the Order in such a spectacular and far-reaching fashion. You could die a hero in a crusade, or you can come back a victor and claw your way up to becoming an Inquisitor. You can see the world with the backing of a legion of the finest military forces the world has ever seen. Yes, a crusade would be something incredible. The reality is nowhere near as fanciful — rather the reality burns like the skin underneath his middle finger.

“You’ll have to be careful in winter months. I know Novigrad is awful that time of year,” Jeonghan had said, maintaining eye contact as he tied the buttons on Joshua’s outercoat. “I know it’ll be difficult, but if you can, please do try write to me? Not often, of course, but I want to know that you’re okay.”

“Of course I will,” Joshua answered, merely allowing Jeonghan to fuss over him. Jeonghan had never been particularly touchy and Joshua was willing to forego this one time, lets him brush imaginary dust off his shoulders.

“Promise me,” Jeonghan insisted, and there was no amusement in his tone.

“I can’t,” Joshua said. “I don’t know what will happen to me. Jeonghan, you know that—”

“Promise me you won’t be reckless. That you’ll stay alive.” Footsteps resound in the corridor outside, and Jeonghan continued in a lower tone. “I know it’ll be a while before we get to be together again, but really, it’s not that long at all. Remember we have our plan right? I’ll have Sinister, you’ll have Dexter—”

“And we’ll meet in the middle.”

Jeonghan relaxed. A contrast to the way Joshua’s heart began to rush. “Yes,” Jeonghan replied. “Exactly.”

Joshua leaves at dawn. There’s already a nickname getting thrown around, ‘Clean-Up Crew’, and he despises it. Wishes he was going anywhere but some dusty Fort with more corpses than citizens. But he has no choice, and neither does Jeonghan. He might be in an even more precarious position. Cold war has broken out in the Citadel among the Inquisitors, attempting to court the High Inquisitor’s son to join their cohort. Joshua searched his heart for jealousy, and found it filled with nothing but rose-tinted admiration for his closest friend. 

“You have to be okay, because no matter what, we’ll be together again.” The hands that grip his coat, slide up to his jaw, and it forces Joshua to stare Jeonghan in his stormy eyes.

“I promise,” Joshua whispered. “Of course, Jeonghan, you know I will.”

“Good.” He let his hands meet at Joshua’s nape, and he seemed content to just enjoy the idea of looking at him, entirely unabashed. Joshua realized he’s attempting to memorize his face, and immediately wished he could unthink the thought. “I won’t let anything hurt my Joshua.”

And it’s one of those moments that seem to extend on forever. Even years later, he could feel the pressure of Jeonghan’s warm hands against his neck, the way his breathing stuttered when he looked at him, and more than anything else, he remembers the silence, the silence that extended from that moment Jeonghan had referred to Joshua with ownership. They had all given their lives to the same Order, nothing about them was _theirs_ anymore, and yet, in one casual sentence, it seemed as if the most loyal of all had created his own rebellion. That the Order could have him and his body and his mind, but the Order couldn’t have Joshua.

How accurate Jeonghan had turned out to be.

“This is temporary,” Jeonghan had said, “When we’re Inquisitors, we’ll never have to be apart again.”

It seems ridiculous to imagine a moment where they would ever be separated when Jeonghan stood in front of him, close enough to count each individual eyelash. Joshua’s chest threatens to burst from the emotion that swirls inside of him. He says something, almost —  he thinks about it. And then he thinks instead of words which could be forgotten, he could lean in, and close the distance while it’s still inches instead of worlds.

Doors open, and light spills into the room and they split apart like a continent forms between them. And then one does.

 

 

It’s hard to talk to Wonwoo. Joshua tries anyway. Foreboding feelings make a home in the corner in his mind, and if that’s the case, he’s used to living like that. At the very least, the end can come knowing Joshua was a friend towards someone who had always been one towards him.

When Joshua steps into his workshop, it feels like summer has hit twice as hard. The atmosphere is _thick_ , everywhere is hot, even the door handle brands his palm. Embers spark out of the roaring furnace, thick smoke curling out. Wonwoo sits at his desk, smiling at Joshua’s intrusion.

“It’s nice to see you again! Have you brought any fruit?” he asks with too much animation for it to be his natural demeanour.

“I have,” Joshua says, placing the basket on the desk. “Met up with Hana for a moment before coming here. Figured you might like something sweet.”

Wonwoo leans in, beams as his fingers wrap around a stem of blueberries. “How did you know this was exactly what I was craving?”

Joshua’s gaze is transfixed by the sight of his nails. Permanent ice crystals reside underneath. It’s so familiar. 

“Joshua?”

He blinks. “Sorry. Slipped away for a moment there. It’s just been a bit… stressful.” It seems silly to say something like that, like Wonwoo isn’t the one who sees death as a shadow in the corner of his eye.

“I know it has,” Wonwoo says. His eyes are always so kind. After all this time, Joshua still doesn’t think he deserves a fraction of what he sees within them.

“I’ll be away tomorrow. Maybe the day after,” Joshua says. This was a necessary precaution to make, in case he never comes back. “If Seungcheol comes looking for me — just tell him I’m with Jeonghan.”

“Doing what?” Wonwoo asks with genuine curiosity. It’s absurd, really, that there’s an equal likelihood of Joshua going into the swamp to kill him, or going into the swamp to kiss him.

“I want going to show him everything. Lay all my cards on the table. One last attempt to show him the Order isn’t what it seems, try and get humanity out of him,” Joshua replies. His eyes flutter closed as he steels himself. “Don’t worry about it. You have enough to deal with.”

Frowns don’t look right on Wonwoo’s face. “I wish you’d let us help you more.”

No. They’ve done enough. Just being associated with him has proven to be highly detrimental to an individual’s health. He wipes the sweat off his brow. The sweltering heat makes it feel like he’s the one inside the furnace, being roasted alive like in a crucible.

“It’s a little warm, isn’t it?” Wonwoo says, forcing a laugh.

“I’m sorry you’ve been suffering,” Joshua replies. “But it won’t be for long.”

“No Joshua,” Wonwoo replies. “I don’t think it will.”

There’s a silence that smothers them then, and it’s one neither wants to interrupt. Joshua doesn’t have any assurance to give to Wonwoo, and for that matter, neither does Wonwoo.

“I’ve been working on something,” Wonwoo says, abruptly turning away. “Want to see?”

Joshua nods. It’s a clever trick to lure him closer, to keep Joshua from standing at the door like he always does, ready to run at the first opportunity. Wonwoo stares at his desk for a moment, sweeps away piles of scrap metal and pulls together components, as if haphazardly deciding their order. “Just a moment, need to get these to fit in,” he mutters to himself. Reaches for a hammer, small in his hand, and knocks a joining rod. Joshua watches in amazement, the same way he watches Seungkwan effortlessly mix his herbs. It’s hypnotic to watch a master at work, how they see beyond Joshua’s eyes.

“There we go,” Wonwoo says, a smile appearing on his lips. “It’s something I’ve been making for Seungcheol and his wife, you know, a little down the way. I know they want a big family, and I thought they might have a place for it…”

It’s not quite what it’s supposed to be — but it’s enough. Delicate ornaments dangle downwards, metal figurines of birds, of beasts, of blueberries and buttercups. They are a fixed distance apart, different heights. All connected by rods and wires — Wonwoo has constructed a mobile.

Feeling very much like a child himself, Joshua reaches out, flicks the figurine of a horse. Watches it revolve around its axis. His smile spreads across his face before he can stop himself. “This is incredible,” his voice soft with awe.

“Still working on it, of course, I know the flowers look a bit dented,” Wonwoo gazes with a critical eye, “The owl doesn’t turn properly yet, I’ll need to fix that. And I have intentions to paint it, but the overall idea is here.”

“They’re going to love it,” Joshua murmurs. “This is such a wonderful idea, Wonwoo.”

“Oh, it’s something small,” Wonwoo says, modesty overpowering him. “You know I like making toys, and it would be ridiculous if I never made anything for him when he’s done so much for me. For all of us.”

“For all of us,” Joshua agrees.

Bile is thick in his throat when he realizes why Wonwoo is showing him this. A contingency plan. It’s in case something happens and he doesn’t finish it. Joshua will be here and able to give it to its intended recipient. When Wonwoo isn’t able to, because for whatever reason, he _can’t_. He stares back down at the ice under his nails.

“Why toys?” he says, if just to silence the thoughts in his head. That if he talks, he won’t have to acknowledge it.

Wonwoo blinks. “What other gift would you give a baby? I can hardly make any smithing tools for infant-sized hands.”

Joshua swallows. “No, I meant… why toys in general? You’re clearly a capable blacksmith, I’ve seen what you’ve forged in the past. You made crossbow bolts for the hunters as well, I know you can.”

“Isn’t personal preference enough of a reason?” Wonwoo asks.

Joshua doesn’t pry. He never does, knows how much he hates answering questions about his own past, but there’s sand ticking out of the hourglass, and the idea that he’ll never know such a part of a friend’s life is one he won’t be able to forget. “Explain it to me.”

There’s a moment of consideration as Wonwoo sighs. He places the mobile on the table, gentler than he did when it was just fragments. Looks at Joshua, really looks at Joshua.

“You’re familiar with swords, I know you are.”

“I am,” Joshua answers. Honesty demands honesty.

“Anyone can make a sword. You can absolutely fuck it up, dent the metal till it’s bent and you can still kill someone with it. A success. Swords are easy. _Violence_ is easy,” Wonwoo says. “Anyone can make a man dead. Not anyone can make a man a friend.”

Violence has always been too easy.

Wonwoo’s hands play with the wheel of the wagon. “I think I help with that. Making friends. They’re just little things, these toys, but they can do something special.”

Joshua had spoken to contain the sickness he feels inside, but it spreads through his whole body.

“I wonder, sometimes, if Jeonghan will kill anyone with those crossbow bolts I made with my own hands. I wonder if anyone has ever used my swords and made someone an orphan. I used to wonder that a lot,” Wonwoo says, voice soft. “I don’t have those kind of worries when I make toys, when I make wagons, when I make mobiles.”

It’s sweat on Joshua’s palms, not blood, but it might as well be.

 

 

Jeonghan is alone.

Joshua tells himself that he notices this because of his physical features. Such long, such golden hair stands out in a crowd. This is not the first lie Joshua tells himself, and it won’t be the last. Joshua would know Jeonghan with both eyes blinded.

Jeonghan is alone, and wanders around the Mire in a hopeless daze, spending hours staring into space. There’s a day where he never leaves the inn at all. When the sun is low in the sky, Joshua walks in, asks Mark where he is, wondering if perhaps Jeonghan had slipped out the back when he blinked.

 _No_ , Mark had said, _he’s upstairs, you can go right up and talk to him._

Joshua does not. He remembers the last time, remembers the curtain of blonde on Jeonghan’s shoulders, the heat of the room, the curve of his collarbone, the pit of something dark uncurling in his belly. Doesn’t want to repeat the situation. Unsure if he’ll be able to resist this time.

Joshua puts off the inevitable, pushes it off his mind and off a cliff. Knows that the next time he speaks to Jeonghan will be the last time, one way or another, that something will happen. Knows that he only gets one last chance to have Jeonghan again, that after this, he’ll be as alone as he was before.

Maybe more this time, equipped with new devices of torture in his memory: the warmth of Jeonghan’s hand, the smell of his hair, the glow of his smile. Equipped with that particularly painful torture of all, the knowledge that he could have gone with him, that he chose to let him go.

  

“I’d like to take you somewhere,” Joshua says. He avoids Jeonghan’s gaze, preferring to focus on the cufflinks of his uniform. “If you’d let me.”

He can’t see his expression but is familiar enough with the intricacies of his voice to imagine it anyway. “Where do you want to go?”

“It’s not far,” he says, not answering. “A few hours by horse. We’ll be back by nightfall if we leave now.”

“You want to go _immediately_?” And now Joshua looks up. It’s some mixture of outrage and confusion in his voice. “You haven’t spoken to me in days and now you’re telling me to drop everything, go gallivanting in the woods with you?”

“It’s not—” Joshua struggles to find the words. “It’s not like that. There are things unsaid between us. I want to tell you everything. About why I left. You wanted to know, and I’ll tell you, but you need to come with me. There’s something you need to see.”

He could have sat down with Jeonghan over a pot of tea and told his story if it would have mattered, but no. Jeonghan is a practical person, and a hunter before anything else, and such a man demands proof. Especially for claims as wild as Joshua is about to make.

“I have to catch a witch, you know,” Jeonghan replies, sarcasm ringing out in his voice. “Bit busy with that.”

“I’ll take a day of your life, and then if you want, not a second more till the day I die. I won’t ask anything more of you.” Joshua’s palms face open and he searches for understanding in Jeonghan’s eyes. Finds it, swirling among the flecks of hazel. Finds something else too, something nameless and natural, that makes Joshua feel like his heart grows wings.

There’s a pause.

“I’ll get the horses,” Jeonghan says.

 

 

Dark clouds loom overhead, and Joshua groans inwardly. Of all times, of all days, he would have preferred the storm to postpone itself. There’s enough electricity in the air, no need for lightning to join, but Joshua has as much control over the weather as he does much else, can only urge the horse to move faster.

“In a rush?” Jeonghan chances, a conversation-starter that might make the journey ever so more bearable.

“Storm’s overhead. I should have seen the signs but I didn’t think it would come so quickly,” Joshua mutters. Levi whinnies in agreement, and he turns around, just to look at her. Impossible to find a creature more beautiful, he decides, a perfect fit for her owner.

“And we’re riding into it,” Jeonghan comments. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re taking me straight to the Western Ramparts.”

“There’s a detour.”

Jeonghan hums. “So I’m right? You are taking me to the Western Ramparts? I should tell you if you’re trying to report me to my superior office, he’s already long gone.”

Most likely fucking Soonyoung at the side of the road, but Joshua sees no reason to voice the thought aloud. “It’s along the way, but there’s a distinct turn. I guarantee you haven’t been here before.”

“That’s quite a bold proclamation considering I’ve walked across half the world, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Jeonghan has wrapped himself tight in a cloak of his own indifference. It’s probably best that way. There’s a constant tug at the threads of Joshua’s thoughts that he should not be doing this, that there’s a thousand ways in which this could go terrible, that this might just be the last time he rides through the swamp at all. And yet, the fact remains: Joshua’s arsenal has been depleted. There is nothing left for him to say or do besides leading Jeonghan to where he attempted to bury the last of his past. The clock ticks, the Frost races, and in some manner or another, by the next moon, there’ll be a new fire lit, and one of the faces would not be around it.

“I had a witcher tell me something about the rain once,” Jeonghan says. “Animals can sense it, I think. He says it’s in the ears. Twitching.”

“That’s interesting,” Joshua replies. “I had a witcher tell me the same thing.”

Mingyu had mentioned it to him while pressed against him, pretending to adjust his stance as Joshua lined up the bow and arrow. Of course, Joshua knew how to fire one, that was covered in his third year of the Academy, but he could be convinced to forget if it meant having the witcher draped around him, thigh slotting between his own.

“It’s in their ears,” he had muttered, pointing at the stallion of Joshua’s ownership. “They twitch like nothing else when a big storm is coming.”

“I’ll remember that,” Joshua had said. “But if that’s the case, shouldn’t we be going?”

“I won’t let a little bit of rain spoil our day together,” Mingyu had said, nuzzling his neck. His cat eyes were gleaming in the receding sunlight, and Joshua had been infatuated. “Our ears aren’t the one that flick after all,” he said and kissed him there.

It’s an interesting coincidence.

“I had a witcher tell me the same thing,” Joshua repeats, and he tugs on the reins of his horse enough to slow down, keep pace with Jeonghan.

“Must be something they learn at their School.”

Joshua’s belief in destiny has been reinforced in himself. There are too many variables in his life to have been spontaneously occurred, no friendly witch with apple cheeks _coincidentally_ is in the same area as a hunter and his magistrate, and indeed, no witcher coincidentally tells the same anecdote.

“What was this witcher’s name?” Joshua asks. It’s that belief in destiny that’s why he’s not surprised when Jeonghan replies:

“Mingyu.”

Decisive silence tells Jeonghan what Joshua would not. “You know him?”

“I do. Quite well.”

Jeonghan laughs. “Isn’t that delightful? He really does get around, doesn’t he!”

He rides ahead in stunned silence. It seems ridiculous, the idea that Joshua who grew up next to him never saw him for _six years_ , but apparently some ashen blonde monster hunter had that honour. Jealousy mixes with something far more intoxicating.

“I don’t mean to be inappropriate,” Jeonghan continues, something like a smirk on his lips, “but I’ve actually been acquainted with him on a few occasions.” And then, like he can’t _resist_ , stares right at Joshua and adds: “ _Intimately_.”

Something dark and deep and devastatingly unresolved knots in his mind, at the thought of the witcher who had taken Joshua’s virtue entangled with Jeonghan, his childhood infatuation that proved to outgrow both those labels, in the act of pleasure, their bodies moving as one, united in that most personal sense. Jeonghan, with his hair fanning out like a curtain, taking Mingyu, strong and firm as he clutches his nails into the flesh of Jeonghan’s shoulder. Imagines for a moment, how wet their kisses must have been, how the smirk Jeonghan wears now must have been the same he wore then, how Mingyu’s fingers had undone every tie of the hunter uniform — in exactly the same manner he had untied Joshua’s.

The bile in his mouth is in contrast to the blood that flows down his body, reverberating in his ears.

“You…”

“Fucked him?”

“Did you?” Joshua says before he can stop himself.

“I did.”

 _You weren’t the only one_ , Joshua would say, if he could find the words.

“Is that a problem?” Jeonghan’s face is innocent. Eyelids batting up and down.

The same hands that gripped Joshua are the same hands that gripped Jeonghan are the same hands who’s phantom grip he can feel between them.

“Not at all,” Joshua says, and clamps his jaw shut. Lists all the things he won’t think about. He won’t think about the witcher and his teeth, sharp canines that match his two swords, that bit up and down Joshua’s throat. He won’t think about Jeonghan, the way his face looked illuminated by the first snowfall, the way his eyes glimmered. And he won’t think of himself, and the way that the storm clouds roll in overhead — also inside.

But it’s more than just jealousy, possessiveness, whatever he feels. Jeonghan had said he met up with his associate, the witcher, before coming here. It seems strange putting that in the same time period as him begging for Seokmin’s permission to go on this investigation. Jeonghan’s intentional evasion of the question. A witcher finds monsters, but they are individuals of multiple talents.

Destiny was what led Jeonghan here, but the thing is, Jeonghan doesn’t believe in destiny. Jeonghan makes his own path, was forced to, since his entire identity was built on the expectations of his lineage. Joshua is willing to believe many things occur by fate — and as he looks at Jeonghan now, the wind caught in his blonde hair, Joshua isn’t willing to believe this.

“Before you set off the Black Mire, you met with a witcher. Why?”

Jeonghan straightens himself, gaze sharp as the tip of an arrow. “I don’t see how that matters—”

“You wanted to come here. Seokmin told me as much. You chose to come here,” Joshua says. “Why?”

Jeonghan’s breathing quickens almost imperceptibly. Almost. Not quite. “I heard rumours.”

“What rumours? Jeonghan, what possible rumours did you hear from the other end of the world?” Joshua demands.

“I told you. In taverns, people talk.” The arrow has been blunted.

Dogs need the scent to track their prey. Witchers are similar. Mingyu wouldn’t need blood.

“Then why a witcher?” Joshua doesn’t know why he asks. It doesn’t matter, really, it doesn’t change the fact that Seungkwan is a witch, Jeonghan is a hunter and neither of them can co-exist. But Joshua wants to know, wants to give himself that selfish pleasure.

Jeonghan’s lips purse. “I wasn’t looking for the witch. Not at first.” He pauses. Speaking is taking a great deal of effort from him. “I was looking for you. It had been years since anyone heard from you or the Magistrate. I was desperate, Joshua. _Years_.”

There’s a heaviness in his chest.

“The Order was useless. No one would tell me anything, claimed I wasn’t high-ranking enough and the files I saw just mentioned the two of you were missing, but safe. That doesn’t make sense, if you were _truly_ safe, you would have come back—” Jeonghan cuts himself off. Takes a moment to compose himself again. “I spoke to many, many people. Rolled out a map and tried retracing your steps. Met the witcher, asked him what his thoughts were — explains why he looked so surprised when I mentioned your name, but I never questioned it, I was just solely focused on _you_.”

Joshua remembers to breathe. “What did Mingyu say?”

“Not much. He could do more if I gave him time, but that was something I could not. But he told me his guesses, that there was a slight possibility you were at the edge of the world, hiding in a swamp.”

Joshua snorts. “What was his other guess?”

“You were dead,” Jeonghan states and it wipes all mirth off of his face. “That you died, years ago already, and your body already decayed to dirt and there was no point wasting a second attempting to find you.” He grips the reins tighter than he needs to, and Levi makes a noise of displeasure. “It’s like finding a grain of rice in a haystack — except the haystack is the entire fucking world.”

“We had a dream, Joshua, of being Inquisitors of the two towers, and I was about ready to get mine. I wasn’t going to leave you behind, not if I could do _anything_.”

Tower Sinister and Tower Dexter, and to meet in the middle. A phrase embedded in the deep tissue of his skin. 

“It seemed like the further down I was looking, the closer I was getting. Then I started hearing about this witch. This magical doctor who can cure anyone and anything.”

The mention of Seungkwan sets the hairs on the back of Joshua’s neck off. 

“Magic shows itself, after all, even when you’re not looking.” And if that wasn’t one of the only truthful things the Order ever taught. “I thought how convenient it would be. I’d go down to this grotty swamp, sort the witch out before my evening meal, and spend the rest of the time looking for you.” He exhales. “It didn’t end up that way.”

Must have been painstaking. Must have taken him hours and hours and days. Pouring over maps, deciphering coded reports, attempting to locate a man who never wanted to be found. A thankless exercise for an indefinite reward. And Jeonghan did it all, quietly, alone.

“There you go, Joshua,” Jeonghan says, and his voice is icy. “Now you know. Now you know that I’m here because I was desperate enough to walk halfway across the world for the _possibility_ that you were here.”

He lets the swamp speak for him. Lets the wind whistle through the cyprus trees, lets the cicadas buzz in circles, lets the hooves of the horses stamp on the path. When he’s ready, Joshua finally asks the only thing he still wonders.

“Why have you been looking for me for so long?”

“Because it’s you, Joshua,” Jeonghan answers, like it’s obvious. “It’s you.”

 

 

They continue riding in silence, neither willing to risk a topic of conversation. Their truce they once had has disintegrated, appears to have left along with Seokmin. It’s more than just the truce, however, it’s like they’ve both scraped off the outer layer of the skin, exposing what is raw, what is tender, what _hurts_.

Joshua thought he was used to hurting. He clearly was not.  

Levi might be the only one who dares to break the quiet, periodically letting out a whinny of displeasure. Jeonghan rubs the back of her ears, leans in and whispers something indistinct but soothing. Joshua doesn’t _want_ to feel jealous of a horse, but can’t help but wish Jeonghan spoke that nicely to him.

“How much further?” Jeonghan asks.

“We can break now,” Joshua says by way of answer. “No point tiring out the horses.”

Jeonghan’s mouth opens to demand more information, but appears to view it as a waste of energy. He sighs, loud enough for Joshua to hear, and it’s certainly not his intention with the overdramatic display, but Joshua smiles at how endearing Jeonghan can be at times.

Water is plentiful in a swamp, creeks forming in the natural depressions in the ground. Even as they move further and further inwards, cyprus giving way to oak, reeds to grass, lakes appear like spotty patches in Velen’s mosaic. Joshua’s horse, a Mire native, has no problem drinking — Levi has qualms of a different kind, snorting in derision.

“She’s picky,” Jeonghan says, unmistakable pride in his voice, “To be expected from a thoroughbred, though. My Leviathan.” He had gazed upon the ground with familiar distaste at first, and then decided to sit down regardless, unbuckling his boots, leaning back. Cool air surrounds them. Joshua hadn’t realized how much his muscles have ached until now, tension tightened in his shoulders.

“Think we’ll miss the storm?” Jeonghan asks.

“Hopefully,” Joshua says, pulling his cloak tighter. Per their unspoken rules, there’s a noticeable gap between where the two of them sit, as if leaving room for someone else to come between.

“Blacksmith doesn’t have much long left,” Jeonghan says. Casually.

Joshua freezes. “No. He doesn’t.”

“I’ve built up an image of this witch in my head, you know, based on the information I’ve received,” Jeonghan settles himself in, uses that measured voice he uses for interrogations, “and this doesn’t seem consistent with their behaviour. This witch wouldn’t let someone _die_ in front of them, and yet, doesn’t that seem like what’s about to happen?”

He’s right, as always. His sketch of Seungkwan is devised in shadows, but he’s got the shape down in ink. Wonwoo won’t die, Joshua wants to say, that’s never been an option.

“I guess we’ll wait and see.”

Jeonghan doesn’t accept the dismissal of the conversation. “Surely this healer won’t just leave an innocent man to die, would he?” Blinks innocently.

“I can’t believe Seokmin did that to him to begin with,” Joshua replies through gritted teeth.

Twirling his fingers into the grass, Jeonghan looks back up at Joshua. His eyes are wide. “I had no idea what he was doing. I wasn’t aware of it. I would have never done anything like that, and I still can’t believe he did, or even that he _could_.”

The apology does little to Joshua — for the reason that Joshua had always believed Jeonghan’s innocence, did not think such an idea could ever even occur to him. Jeonghan was a genius, yes, but not unforgivably evil. Not enough to destroy an innocent man from the inside.

“I asked him. How,” Jeonghan says. “I don’t think Inquisitor rings are like the others. There’s something unfamiliar about them. It’s almost…”

Joshua completes his sentence before he can stop himself. Thinks of his palm burning. “Magic?”

Jeonghan swallows. “Yes.”

Wouldn’t that be the most delightful addition to the toppling tower of hypocrisy the Order made for itself? Exploit magic for personal purposes, while condemning it as soon as it’s out of eyesight. He rubs his hand.

Joshua is distracted by the movement of Jeonghan’s fingers, pulling his own rings up and down, up and down. A familiar nervous tick. “Do you still have yours?”

“My what?” Joshua asks, attempting to prolong the inevitable.

“Your rings.” Jeonghan’s eyes catch on his own, the three that line up his middle finger. “Or did you throw them away?”

Honesty will always be hard. Honesty will always mean vulnerability, will mean stripping away the outer casings of the self, to dismantle finely made barricades, all in the pursuit of understanding. Joshua is used to being defenseless, but he still hesitates to pull down this last line. Jeonghan knows everything about him and perhaps that’s why Joshua has forced him to ride all the way out here, in the pursuit of understanding — the alternative would be too painful to bear.

“I kept them,” Joshua answers. Hears the walls crash and fall around him, hears them sink into the ground they came from. “I could never throw them away. When I had nothing, all I kept was two. The one was my sword and that was for protection.”

“And the other were your rings?”

“For identity.”

So that if something happened, that if he never survived, if the Frost collapsed him from the inside out, someone would know. That even if he lives through the disease, but  ends up with a sword through his chest on the road, _someone would know_. They wouldn’t know his name, they wouldn’t know his fondness of watching snowfall, they wouldn’t know the sound of his voice when he speaks his own language, but none of that matters, they’d know he’s a hunter, and that means _something_.

“We made them together, remember?” Jeonghan says. Nostalgia fans over his face like a gentle breeze.

“I wouldn’t forget something like that,” Joshua repeats.

“Don’t suppose you have yours here, do you?” He doesn’t seem surprised when Joshua shakes his head. “Silly question, I know.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see them. The last time I did was when I held your hand that day,” and it feels like that honesty is too personal, too potent, and strikes Joshua through the ribcage. Reminds him there’s a heart that beats there, there’s a heart that aches. 

“Can I see?” Joshua asks, pointing to Jeonghan’s hand. “It’s been so long.”

Keeping his face carefully composed, Jeonghan nods, and Joshua moves closer, crossing the distance. Feels warmer here.

He holds out his hand, and Joshua takes it in his own. He can feel the heat of Jeonghan’s blood underneath it, feels the force of his life, and for someone who has lost so much, it’s a sensation that’s importance Joshua does not undermine. He lets the pads of his fingers run over the metal, warm and tarnished in those most subtle of ways. Runs his hand over each individual ring and repeats the virtue under his breath. Loyalty. Obedience. The Order.

“Still the same ring?”

“Of course,” Jeonghan answers. Joshua can feel the weight of his gaze. Wonders how many times Jeonghan has looked at him, and Joshua has looked away.     

 “Would be so easy for you if you came back, you know,” Jeonghan says, and the picture he starts to paint is as vivid as the grass and sky around them. His words bring colours Joshua doesn’t even know the name of, and for a moment, he lets Jeonghan talk, and just listens to that gentle timbre of his voice. “There’s a whole future we could have together, and I could make it painless for you. Effortless.”

“Jeonghan, I don’t think you should say this.” Not like this. Not now. “Please.” He’s lived years of his life in a swamp that’s moist and muggy, he’s learnt the lessons of avoidance, and he wants to practice them.

“But it would be, Joshua, that’s the truth.” He’s a natural leader like that, just has that tone that commands attention, and Joshua looks up, unable to stop himself. Jeonghan’s hand tightens around his own. “I’d make it so simple, you wouldn’t have to worry about anything. You could come home with me, and we could be together again.” 

Home. Joshua wants to ask him does he mean the plains with cornfields, or does he mean the granite towers of the Citadel. Decides instantly it doesn’t matter, it’s far more important that they’d be _together_.

“I’ve thought it all out, painstakingly. You’re written as missing, and I’d tell the Inquisitors that it was because you were investigating undercover. We’d just have to get the witch and that’ll be all we need. You’d come back as a _hero_ , Joshua, like the kind you always wanted to be.”

That was a dream that had been dead for a long time, leaves already fallen, roots already rotten.  Jeonghan doesn’t stop talking, going louder and louder.

“And then after my enthronement, when I’m Inquisitor,” Jeonghan pauses to inhale, and there’s something shiny in his eyes, “When I’m Inquisitor, I’ll take you under my command. You’ll be my right hand, and you’re so _skilled_ even after all this time, Joshua, you almost _beat_ me when we sparred and you haven’t picked up a blade in years. I can see it, you’ll be revered and admired when you return. it’ll just be a matter of time until you yourself will kneel at the foot of the High Inquisitor when he inducts you.”

Joshua would close his eyes but that doesn’t stop the images that form in his head, of the pleased smirk on High Inquisitor Jihoon’s face as he would enthrone him, of the sound of his feet against the marble hallways of the Citadel, of staring out at that snowfall one more time, Jeonghan at his side.

“You can’t ask this of me,” Joshua says. He wants to say, _no, you can’t tempt me with this, you can’t remind me of how I almost had everything and how I still could_. “Please, don’t do this.” 

Jeonghan’s voice is hoarse now. His hair blows in the wind, strands clinging to his face. “I know it’s been so long, but do you remember the Citadel? Of course you do, I _know you do_. You just can’t forget something like that. Tower Dexter and Tower Sinister, the one on the left and the one on the right. We could have those. Those could be ours. The Inquisitors of the Twin Towers, Joshua, it could be beautiful.”

And it could, it really could, because Joshua can picture it with such clarity that he could almost touch the drapery of his enthronement cloak. This is a well-worn dream, there’s nothing shiny or new about this. If fantasies of his triumphant return were pennies, Joshua would have purchased Seungkwan the highest house in the Mire. Joshua has thought about this before, but that doesn’t change the fact. Jeonghan remains Jeonghan, beautiful, brilliant and ultimately a pawn of an organization that cares not for him, or his abilities.

And Joshua remains Joshua.

“I’ve worked so hard to become someone new,” Joshua says. “It felt like I had to reconstruct myself from the bare parts. I still don’t feel whole sometimes. I can’t go back, even if I wanted to, because I’m not that person anymore. I can’t go back to that Citadel and burn witches anymore.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t killed people, Joshua,” Jeonghan says and that — _that_ was meant to hurt, and Joshua pulls his hand away from Jeonghan’s. “You know I hate the hypocrisy.”

“I’ve tried to make amends,” Joshua spits out, “I’ve given up everything I am to try and ask for forgiveness for what I’ve done. All the terrible things I’ve done because of _duty_. I accept responsibility for the things I’ve done, but ask yourself why you should believe anything the Order says. Till then, carry your own burden.” He rises to his feet. There’s never been a more appropriate reminder of the reason for this journey. “We should ride on. It’s not much longer left.”

“Joshua, do not turn away from me.” Jeonghan’s tone is imperious, and it’s not one that Joshua’s prepared to tolerate. Seungkwan was meticulous when he taught him how to disobey, and Joshua sets that lesson in his mind.

“I’m not going to be part of this anymore, have I not made that clear?” Phantom dirt clings to Joshua’s skin and he wants to rip it off.

Jeonghan steps closer, pulling on Joshua’s arm. “Joshua, wait, look, please—”

The problem lies where Joshua lets Jeonghan speak, because when he allows Jeonghan to speak is when Joshua finds his resolve dissolving to sand. The reality of their situation has become a physical presence that can no longer be ignored — not when it stands right between them, connecting the touch of Jeonghan’s fingers to Joshua’s skin.

He pulls his arm away.

“What more do you need? Why do you want me as well? You’ve got your Order.  Isn’t it enough?” It has to be enough. Joshua would give him everything if he could, but he can’t do this, this is one step too far. He’s not _himself_ , he’s never been himself, he tore apart everything he knew of himself years ago and tried so hard to piece it back together and he doesn’t know how tell Jeonghan there’s parts missing. _It has to be enough_.

Jeonghan has always been hungry. For bigger, sharper swords. For better, stronger opponents. For harsher, harder opportunities. He’s always been hungry, like there’s eternal starvation in his mind and he looks at Joshua with that same hunger. Desire and possession closely entwined.

“It’s not.”

 

  It was easier to admire the Magistrate when he was alive. It sounds deceivingly simple, but truthfully Joshua finds it difficult to summon up many positive emotions when he does think of the Magistrate. Which isn’t often, not really. The Magistrate as a man was certainly among one of the better ones that Joshua had met. He was accomplished, held his medals close to his chest with pride but never let his ego hang heavy with them. Joshua would be lying if he said he hadn’t idolized him.

He had just felt so _special_. Inquisitor Jihoon had requested him specifically to escort the Magistrate, and it had felt like the start of change. He wasn’t going to be part of the clean-up crew anymore. He was going to be valued, he was going to rise up the ranks, he was going to become an Inquisitor.

And so would Jeonghan, and they would reunite, and the world would realign itself.

The Magistrate was a vehicle for this, but Joshua would never have considered him in such an impersonal way. Joshua cared for him. His stories were plentiful and he was kind, and that was more than most of the Order could say.

The sickness sprang up on him so suddenly, and he so stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. Would press on, kept emphasizing how far the distance was, that they were already late, that they should have been there already. Joshua watched him die, and Seungkwan is the only one who knows this. It’s a burden Joshua carries, and he wonders why, why when it was the Order that drove him to this to begin with?

He hadn’t visited his tomb in a long time. And part of the reason was that it was easier to admire the Magistrate when he was alive. Now, now it’s different. Now it’s hard to enjoy his stories with the knowledge that he played an active role in deaths that extend beyond numbers, that he himself was responsible for re-education and the laws that governed the Order. It’s different knowing that if the Magistrate met him today, that same kind smile would be used to bark out the command to execute him.

Jeonghan is quiet next to him, and it’s better this way. Joshua doesn’t know what to say to him. A look at the sky tells him the storm approaches, and he urges his horse faster.

“We’re almost there,” Joshua says, by way of explanation.

“It’s far,” Jeonghan comments.

“It had to be,” Joshua says. “The Frost lingers close by. It’s deliberate going somewhere so isolated.”

“This has to do with the Frost?” Jeonghan’s eyes are wider now. “Joshua, I should warn you, it’s extremely dangerous.”

It would be wise to stop underestimating him. Bitterness coats his tongue. “You don’t think I know?” Joshua has the Frost written in his veins. It’s as a part of him as his own thoughts. He came here by his own choice, but the closer he approaches the tomb, the more he wishes he was anywhere else, with anyone else.

“This looks like a graveyard,” Jeonghan remarks. “Why have you brought me here?”

Not quite a graveyard. But the grass is green here, and flowers bloom. Seungkwan is to thank for that. A little decoration. Innocuous, more than anything else, anyone passing by would assume it’s a shrine of a religion long last to time, the building decaying around it. It’s what Joshua assumed the original purpose of the structure was. The boulder that  blocks the entrance is carefully placed. Makes it look like it rolled there through a storm, the surface covered in moss suggesting it was not often disturbed.

“You can dismount,” Joshua murmurs to himself. He wants to say that the cold is an effect of the weather, but that doesn’t seem true. His heart feels heavy.

“I went here for a reason. The Magistrate and I, we were meant to be at the Tundra but we could never make it that far,” Joshua says, and the words feel odd in his mouth. It’s like he’s telling a fairytale, some distant story that has no relation to him. “The Frost came.”

Jeonghan’s face is impassive. “And then?”

Positioning himself at the end, Joshua inhales deeply, wells up all the strength in his body and starts to shift the rock. Difficult, absolutely, but not impossible. He can feel the stone start to shift, removing the layer of grass and soil with it, insects scuttling out. Jeonghan steps back, frowning.

“Need some help there?”

“No, it’s fine,” Joshua grunts, shoving his entire body against it. It’s easier with Seungkwan, all he does is _look_ and the rock shifts like it’s made of silk. There’s a kind of satisfaction in the manual labour, however, reinforces that Joshua does not exist merely as a memory of his former self: he has the same skills, the same strength.

When it moves past, the opening to the tomb is lined with cobwebs. He leans against the wall, catching his breath, lets his muscles relax. Jeonghan observes him.

“You’re being more cryptic than usual,”

“That’s not my intention.” he replies, stops to breathe in again. They came all this way, this is Joshua’s last chance, and he can’t stop hesitating. Words struggle to form in his head, a way to use a suitable euphemism, to soften the blow. He gives up. Just states the reality. “He’s dead. The Magistrate is dead and I saw him die.”

“But that’s not true,” Jeonghan says without blinking.

“I know the Order says something different, but Jeonghan I saw the life leave his eyes. I buried him myself. _Here_.”

It seems to click. The isolated location, the old shrine, the secrecy. Jeonghan’s face seems split in two, and he says nothing as he pushes past Joshua, walking down the steps into the tomb. For a moment, Joshua considers waiting. He’s seen the lifeless face of the Magistrate enough, enough to burn an image in his mind.

But he’s no coward, and he follows Jeonghan.

It’s always so icy in here. Seungkwan had assured him that the Frost was trapped within his body, that there’s no way it could escape, and Joshua would believe him — but Seungkwan was also the one who suggested burying him hours ride away from any civilization. Precautionary measure, perhaps, or an essential one. Icicles hang in the corners, and the floor is littered with remnant of frozen leaf fragments.

Fearless is what Jeonghan would be called, the kind of bravery he possesses. He doesn’t seem to hesitate to pull the cloak off the body in the centre, to look down at the face, to grip the hand and count five individual rings. 

“Joshua, he can’t be dead.”

Grief doesn’t sound right in Jeonghan’s voice. It twists the melodious tone, makes it harsh and jagged.

“This can’t be real,” Jeonghan says, and his hands clench into fists. He remains fixed at the side of the Magistrate’s body, staring down as if by sight alone he could rouse the dead.

“I saw it happen, Jeonghan, I saw it all. The Frost consumed him from the inside. There was nothing anyone could do. Believe me, I tried,” Joshua swallows. “And Seokmin knew. Seokmin knew he was dead.”

When Jeonghan turns around, Joshua almost wishes he didn’t. His fine features are contorted in anguish, eyes unable to stop blinking, suppressing tears. “He knew?”

“Yes. He told me.” Seokmin instructed him to help Jeonghan. Joshua will do just that.

“That doesn’t make _sense_ , Joshua, if he knew, why would the Order tell me that he was fine, that he was just busy faraway? Why would the Order lie?”

Joshua would take every fragment of pain that Jeonghan feels and add it to his own if it meant Jeonghan didn’t have to feel like this anymore, if it meant that he’d smile that dazzling smile again. Anything but this, this raw agony.

“The Order doesn’t care, Jeonghan, it never did,” Joshua murmurs. “But you knew that. You must have.”

He just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“Don’t you ever wonder about what the Order told us?” Joshua says, lowering his voice to a whisper. Rebellion will always be difficult and unfamiliar, and speaking so openly of the Order feels dangerous. “They made us believe that by setting witches alight we’re saving them. They made us think they were all uncontrollable. That just isn’t true. And if that’s not true, how much of it is?” Joshua pauses. “What if there is a heaven and a hell? And which one do you think we’re going to when we’re the ones that have _burned people alive_?”

“You can’t think those things,” Jeonghan says. His mouth snaps shut.

Joshua takes a step closer. “I can. And I do. We built our lives in flame, how much longer until you think we’ll be consumed by it?”

Jeonghan’s path seems jagged, wild as he stumbles up the stairs. He steps out, blinks at the sky, clutches a stone for stability.

“Jeonghan,” Joshua says, following him out of the tomb. He pauses to seal it shut, not wanting to risk anyone approaching. This goes easier, and the rock slides into place. “Where are you going?”

The air is cold. “He’s dead,” Jeonghan says. “He’s dead. The Magistrate is dead.”

“He is,” Joshua says. It hurts to confirm it. He had thought he was over it, buried both the body and the memories. He’s _supposed_ to be over it. “Jeonghan…”

“When I was younger, he came to the house a lot. We used to host events, just small dinner parties,” Jeonghan murmurs. “Inquisitors, only. And even then, just a handful. I was never really allowed to attend but my father would sometimes introduce me to them. I remember the Magistrate. He was friendly. Good with a bow.”

“The best,” Joshua replies.

Wind braces against Joshua. They can’t be here long.

“The Order told me he was just travelling. That he had so much work to do, classified work, Inquisitors only. I believed them,” Jeonghan looks up. His stare is vacant. “They lied to me.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Joshua says. “Jeonghan—” He steps closer, lets his hand touch his shoulder. Meant to be a sign of comfort. Jeonghan shakes it off like it’s dirty.    

_“Don’t touch me, traitor.”_

And that hurts more than Joshua thought it would. He stumbles back, stares. “Jeonghan?”

“Who killed him, Joshua?” Jeonghan demands, his eyes wide with fury. “Tell me, I’ll destroy them. If I find the person responsible, they’ll die screaming—”

“Jeonghan,” Joshua whispers, “No one killed him. It was the Frost, no one did anything. There was nothing you could have done. You couldn’t have saved him.” He hesitates. “I couldn’t save him.”

Witnessing Jeonghan cry is like watching a tower fall. It’s beautiful, in a way, being struck by the sight of absolute destruction — but more than anything else, it makes Joshua’s heart clench, knowing that he is powerless, can do nothing more than watch it crumble.

“They lied to me,” Jeonghan says. His voice is scratchy, the words pushing through the pain. “The Order told me he was across the world. That he went to Novigrad, that he went to Skellige, that I _just_ missed him, but that he was fine, that he was just busy, that he was fine—”

“Jeonghan.”

“They told me he was fine,” he spits.

Dangerous. Jeonghan has always been dangerous. Armed with words, armed with swords, armed with crossbows, Jeonghan has always had the capability and proficiency to destroy whatever’s around him to a state where no smouldering ember would remain. Joshua, in acknowledgement of this, steps closer and holds him anyway.

His sobs wrack against Joshua’s body, and it seems like he fights against the embrace at first — and then gives up, letting himself weep into the fabric of Joshua’s coat. He can hear Jeonghan’s heartbeat like a drum. All his movements are slow, as not to startle him, as not to fray this fragile ribbon between them. He lets his hand reach up the side of his back, brings him closer, the other curling around his nape, feeling the soft hair there.

“It was so dark,” Joshua finds himself saying. Giving voice to the memory. “It was so cold. Everything was so cold. Fire was never warm enough. He wouldn’t stop trying to get to the Tundra, to where Jihoon was waiting. He gave everything to the Order, _everything_ , and they wouldn’t even tell the truth.”

Jeonghan mumbles something incoherent into his shirt.

“The nights felt so unforgiving. I took him to every doctor in every town, and no one could help him. I had no money. I had no food. I felt defenseless.”

He can feel Jeonghan’s breathing even out against his chest. Joshua holds him tighter.

“I watched him die,” Joshua says faintly. Breathes in the scent of Jeonghan’s hair. “I traded everything I had just to get by. Even my horse.”

He lifts his head. “Your horse?”

“Everything. I tried everything.”

“And you survived?”

And there it is. The silence is noticed. Jeonghan looks up, eyes rimmed with tears, and waits for an answer.

“A witch,” Joshua says, his voice shaking, “There’s a witch in the swamp that can perform miracles — but you know that.”

“I always had a feeling you knew,” Jeonghan says, and he doesn’t sound surprised. It’s impossible to know the intimacies and intricacies of someone this well and still possess the capacity to be surprised. That is given that up when you get inside, when you weave yourself into the tapestry which is exactly what Joshua did, but the problem with that, is that he’s trapped himself so thoroughly, he might never get out.

“I do, Jeonghan, of course I do.”

Jeonghan disentangles himself, steps back. There’s disappointment there. “So this is how it is? You pick a witch over me?”

“No,” Joshua answers. “No. That’s not it at all. I’m not—” He breaks off. “The Order has killed so many innocent people, I won’t let him be one of them.” It’s past the point of return. Honestly is all Joshua has, and he cuts into it like it’s an artery. “He chose to help me. There was nothing for him to gain. Jeonghan, he knew I was a hunter, he knew I could kill him and he helped me regardless.”

Storm clouds gather in his eyes. “There’s nothing left for either of us here, is there?”

Joshua had hoped that it would be easy. Fanciful, yes, but he wanted to believe that he’d tell Jeonghan everything and he’d just _believe_ him, that he’d _agree_ with him, that he’d _understand_. He doesn’t see any trace of that in Jeonghan’s gaze. Just disappointment. Perhaps in his mind this wasn’t a good enough reason to leave the Order behind. Perhaps this changes nothing. “No,” Joshua finally says. 

Levi nears forward when Jeonghan approaches her. He mounts easily, regarding Joshua with indifference. “Then, we go back. You’ve made your point.”

He looks at Jeonghan only long enough to want to look away.

 

 

“Jeonghan, do you need anything?” Joshua asks, weary of the tension that grows between them, violent and twisted like roots of an oak. In an attempt to coax understanding, Joshua suggested resting for a moment. A nod was the only reply, but he notices a distinct glint in Jeonghan’s eyes. Careful observation shows that despite his assurance that he was _fine_ , he clearly is not, not with the way he paces back and forth. Keeps looking at Levi more than Joshua himself, as if he doesn’t even want to acknowledge his presence. “Jeonghan?”

Jeonghan gazes at him, opaque as glass.

Illusions of nobility had clouded his mind, and now with clarity, Joshua wonders if he made the right choice. He thought it was best to show him the reality of the situation, show him the body of the Magistrate in eternal and frozen rest. Proof of the Frost, proof the lies of the Order, to show that no, Joshua didn’t run away, he left because he had to. He reconsiders now. His intentions were _good_ , he keeps rationalizing to himself. Jeonghan had _asked_ , no, _demanded_ to know why Joshua left, and Joshua told him. All he wanted to do was open Jeonghan’s eyes to what the Order was, what they’d done, how they preferred to wipe away all traces of the man rather than admit the truth.

He didn’t even stop to consider that it would hurt.

Vicious clouds roll in. Storms like this don’t come often, and that was a blessing, as they take even longer to repair from. They need to leave.

“Jeonghan, we should get back,” he swallows. “It’ll start raining any minute.” When no answer comes, Joshua dares to step closer, rests his hand on his shoulder, and finally, _finally_ Jeonghan looks at him, his stare vacant, his stare distant. Makes Joshua wish he had looked away. “Jeonghan?”

“No.”

He blinks in confusion. That wasn’t an answer. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not ready to leave. I don’t want to.”

“What do you want to do then? Should I get you some water, or would you like a moment alone—”

Jeonghan cuts him off, eyes rolling. “You want to help so badly? Fight me.”

None of the words he says seems to make sense. Like a thousand frayed edges, he’s unable to tie them together. “I’m not going to fight you.”

“Fight me,” Jeonghan repeats. Gradually becomes more animated, the idea taking hold in his mind. He reaches into Levi’s saddlebags, and _throws_ a sword at Joshua. He jumps back instinctively, watching it land onto the ground. Jeonghan withdraws his own, his Pallas, and doesn’t even admire the way the blade polishes like he usually would. “Ten steps back. Bow. Come on, don’t just stand there.” He clicks his fingers. “Pick it up.”

Joshua misses sparring. He misses the feel of a weight in his hand, of the sound of every stab, and the rush of adrenaline that comes with every misstep and every counter. But Joshua doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to spar less than this moment.

“Jeonghan, I’m not going to fight you,” Joshua says, stares back down at the sword at his feet. It’s pointed towards him like an invitation.

“I’d recommend picking that up, Joshua,” Jeonghan says, his voice worryingly calm. “Or you’ll be at a disadvantage.”

“Now’s not a very good time, surely you understand that. It’s about to rain.” Panic bubbles up in his throat. “You can see the stormclouds!”

“You might have your disagreements about the Order, but you can’t deny they’ve taught us very well,” Jeonghan replies, twirling the blade in his hand. “I would say we’re the best swordsmen around, really.”

His entire identity is constructed around this organization and it’s so poisonous, it feels like the air around them becomes heavier.

“Jeonghan, do you even know who you are without that uniform?” Joshua says.

It looks like it hurts. Right up until Jeonghan reaches up to his neck, delicate fingers clasping on his collar and undoes the first tie. “Oh Joshua,” he purrs, “If you wanted to see me without my clothes on, you just had to ask.”

Air dissolves itself from his lungs. “That’s—”

Anything he said was just a weapon without an edge. Brief stammering permits Jeonghan to take the required ten steps back. Flexes his wrist. Runs his hand over the side of the blade. His head is tilted to the side. Waiting.

Joshua doesn’t think Jeonghan would hurt him. He also doesn’t want to be proven wrong. Particularly not in a more permanent way. Joshua picks up the sword from the ground, holding it like the end of a cattleprod, with disdain and awareness of the danger emanating from it. Maintains eye contact with Jeonghan, and doesn’t see much familiarity in it. He’s acting like himself, yes, but not quite, like there’s something unbalanced within. Unhinged.

“Jeonghan, we don’t need to do this.”

“Bow,” is all Jeonghan says, and does it himself. Properly too, low and sweeping. With respect. Joshua remains where he is. Truthfully, he has no reference point for this kind of behaviour. He never went out and started fighting with people when his eyes had been opened to the Order’s injustices, and frankly, he was never one to do that before either. With no prior experience to dictate his actions, Joshua relies on himself, and his own affection for Jeonghan to protect them both.

Joshua barely misses the first strike, ducking underneath the swing of the sword. When the second one comes, it nearly hits him _again_. He keeps all of the hairs on his head by virtue of a quick escape, stepping back. He’s ready for the third, and raises his own sword to defend himself, and the sound of the metal clanging together rings in his ears. He’s close enough to see the rose quartz embedded in the hilt.

It’s hard to enjoy this as an exercise in sparring. As an opponent, Jeonghan is a rather terrible one at present, rushing forward with no regard for style or sportsmanship. If this had been the Academy, he’d have been sent away within the first minute, deigned to practise with wooden dummies and steel daggers. Joshua parries another near-lethal hit against his chest.

Joshua’s technique has devolved into the sole purpose of defense, of staying alive and not hurting Jeonghan. He doesn’t attack, not even once, and never lingers in a single position for longer than a second. Certainly, it would be faster if Joshua went forward, if he used his sword, sparred _properly_ , but there’s hesitation. He can’t trust Jeonghan to defend himself, not in this current state — and Joshua would never hurt him.

What was once a dance between blades has been reduced to careless striking and thwacking. Jeonghan’s technique from years upon years of precise training has been forgotten, and his only goal appears to be _winning_. He has little regard for his own safety, and had Joshua been playing the usual game, he’d have the opportunity to exploit ten openings already. Jeonghan doesn’t even notice, his breathing laboured, his forehead sweat-slicked.

Yet another failed strike leaves Jeonghan feeling wounded, and he halts for a moment, inhaling deeply, eyes scrunched shut. His grip on his sword is all wrong, nails digging into the hilt.

“Jeonghan, we can call this a draw,” Joshua chances to say, a safe distance away. “Let’s put down our swords and talk.”

“About what?” Jeonghan snaps. His teeth are bared, lips pulled taut.

“Anything you want to.” Joshua dares to stretch his spine out, flex his wrists, granting his body a moment of rest. The lack of a warm-up was beginning to come clear, his muscles aching. “But can we do it on the way back? I’m worried about the storm—”

Instinct alone is what keeps Joshua from remaining in possession of all ten of his fingers. Jeonghan swings his sword _recklessly_ , and Joshua had been more concerned about Jeonghan’s safety, but wonders if he should reassess his priorities. He blinks in bewilderment at the intensity of Jeonghan’s strike. Far more damaging than should be seen in a friendly spar. Joshua parries, steps back, and this becomes a pattern, becomes a rhythm

“You’re holding back.” Jeonghan’s accusation is harsh, licked with poison. “And yet you’re still so _fucking_ good. It’s been years since you’ve held a sword, how are you still this _good_?”

The reality is, of course, that Jeonghan is sparring particularly poorly. He’s irrational, rushing forwards at inopportune times. Exhausting himself fighting an enemy that doesn’t exist. But Joshua merely deflects the next strike, steps back and lets Jeonghan run into the air where he once was.

His hair has displaced itself out of his ponytail, falling into his eyes.

“You’re not fighting properly,” Jeonghan snarls, spinning backwards. 

Joshua knows what Jeonghan looks like when he’s angry, knows the way rage cracks his demeanour into cold, his gaze a glacier, encompasses icebergs in his iris. That’s not what Joshua sees now. With his face flushed and splotchy, eyes glistening with tears, Jeonghan looks _hurt_ — and Joshua never wanted to fight to begin with, and he _really_ doesn’t want to now. 

“Jeonghan, _stop_.”

And against all facets of rationality and self-preservation telling him not to, Joshua looks up at Jeonghan — and throws the sword away. Lets it slam against the nearest oak, watches it sink to the ground. Violence has always been too easy. 

“ _Pick that up_ ,” Jeonghan demands scornfully. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I’m not playing.”

Jeonghan steps closer, and Joshua backs away in the same instant, two heavenly bodies in careful orbit around each other. Becomes highly aware that he’s now unarmed. Defenseless. Trusts Jeonghan won’t hurt him, but won’t give him the temptation either. “You know it’s dangerous to be without a weapon. That’s one of the first things they taught us.”

“I don’t need a weapon,” Joshua replies, keeping his tone measured.

“You always need a weapon. You never know when something might _happen_.” Jeonghan takes another step closer. Twirls his sword in his wrist. “They taught you this at the Academy, silly, I was there.”

Victory that Jeonghan craves would come at a price Joshua isn’t prepared to pay. He makes a resolution now. “Jeonghan, I’m not going to fight you any longer.” There’s outrage in his face, but Joshua won’t succumb to his whims. Washes his hands of this. Will not be responsible for encouraging his unhealthy behaviour, won’t let him do something he’ll regret. “This isn’t about sword fighting.”

“Of course it is! How is this any different than when we were out hunting together? Remember, I beat you then. Don’t you just want to _try_ and see if you can win against me?” His voice takes on an enticing tone. “Or are you afraid you’ll lose again?” Smiles crooked. “Don’t want to get on your knees in front of me? You enjoyed it enough, last time.”

Diamonds are effortlessly beautiful, and the comparison to Jeonghan seems obvious — so is their similarity in sharp edges. Edges that can hurt, edges that can kill, and all the while, remains as flawless as they were to begin with. Blood will rinse off. Joshua will remain with lacerations over his heart for the rest of his life.

 “What is this about?” Joshua inhales. Steels himself.

“It’s not about _anything_ , this isn’t about _you,_ none of this is about you, I just—” Jeonghan cuts himself off in frustration. He nears closer. Doesn’t lower his sword.

He wonders, as he often does nowadays, if Jeonghan wants to kill him.

“Jeonghan, I’ve hurt you.”

He gazes at Jeonghan, as beautiful and untouchable as he always is, even with his face flushed and his neck sweat-slicked. Pallas is so natural in his grip. Joshua wonders why he finds this familiar. Realizes he’s seen it in his dreams and nightmares. He’s imagined his death so often. He’s not even frightened anymore when he looks right at it.

“Yes. Yes, Joshua, you’re so clever, you’re right. You have,” Jeonghan snarls. “But it’s not because you showed me a damn grave, it’s not because you’ve been keeping secrets this whole time, it’s not even because you knew where the damn witch was this entire time, it’s because _you left me_.” Jeonghan takes another step forward. “Pick up your fucking sword, and fight me. That’s all we have left, isn’t it?”

Ashes. That’s all that remains. After every death, after every pyre, and after every fire, there’s ashes. Sifting through to find what remains of _them —_ it’s perhaps not surprising that Jeonghan only sees the violence.     

“Do you want to kill me, Jeonghan? Because I think I’d let you.”

Jeonghan falters in the same second he strikes his hand down. The angle is rough, the angle is wrong, and Joshua moves through instincts alone. Pallas is faster than mere footsteps, and the hesitation in Jeonghan’s motion sets Joshua’s own trajectory off. The sword falls across his hand, blade so sharp it splits skin like parting petals from a rose.

Joshua looks from his hand to Jeonghan. Then back. 

Blood gushes from the laceration, spills across the skin, into the grooves of his palm running like rivulets. Pain radiates out like a wave and he grits his teeth. Joshua swallows, locks back the agonized cry behind his teeth. He covers the wound with his other hand, attempts to think rationally. It’s broad, not deep. A glorified scratch really, even if the blood seems to protest that classification. It hurts, absolutely, entirely, completely — but Joshua hasn’t really been concerned about injuries for a long time.

Because _Seungkwan_. Because Seungkwan has whispered to broken bones to reconnect, to tissues to knit themselves together, and _of course_ , Seungkwan can fix a silly little scratch — but he isn’t here. And Jeonghan is.

Pallas is a well-maintained blade, and it’s clear Jeonghan treasures it, keeps it safe, keeps it clean — and he throws it over his back, sparing it not even a glance as he sinks down to his knees.

The shock on Jeonghan’s face diminishes only to turn into irreconcilable remorse. 

“Joshua, I’m _sorry_.”

There’s something absurd about the future Inquisitor kneeling in the dirt, supplicating in front of a defector. Joshua can’t stop staring. Strands of blonde cling to Jeonghan’s face. Eyes wide and haunted. “Joshua, I never meant to hurt you, it was an _accident_ , I’m so, so sorry.”

Joshua nods, unable to fully process the sight in front of him. “It’s okay.”

Never dropping the eye contact sustained between them, Jeonghan reaches into the folds of his cloak, produces a handkerchief and waits for Joshua to lift his other hand. His palm is wet with blood, sticking to the fingers of his hand. Unflinchingly Jeonghan, the same man who gets upset when his boots aren’t shiny, cleans the skin, applying pressure to the laceration. His knees shake, but he still shows deference, unwilling to stand.

 _Don’t bother_ , Joshua wants to say, _Seungkwan will heal it. It won’t even leave a scar._

“I hurt you,” Jeonghan repeats.

“You did,” Joshua says. “And I forgive you.”

Of course he would. Jeonghan should know by now. He could burn Joshua where he stands, and he’d forgive him.

Jeonghan looks up. To gaze at him like that, Joshua must be a vision of the divine. He must be beautiful. “You forgive me?”

Breathing is difficult. “Yes. Always.”

History has proven time and time again that Joshua will continue to make excuses for Jeonghan, will continue to believe in Jeonghan, will stand with Jeonghan even when the rest of the world will not. Always means _always_.

Joshua shirks off the handkerchief, cups Jeonghan’s chin is his split hand, almost delighting in the way his blood looks as it smudges across his perfect face. Joshua thought it would be easier if he was less beautiful, but no, Jeonghan doesn’t look any less beautiful. He’s even more, reverence rising over him like the sun.

“It must have been hard showing me his grave,” Jeonghan says, “Telling me everything. It must have been hard being alone. I wasn’t thinking, I just, I had to do _something_ , the Order lied to me about so much, and it just reminded me how it felt when you…”

And Joshua finally apologizes for the truth of what he is, for leaving. For ruining each other, their dreams of two towers, their future. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Jeonghan takes Joshua’s hand, clasps it over with his own, and pushes it up to his lips. Like to lose the game. Like in surrender. His lips ghost over his fingertips, cautious — and then grows in confidence, kisses his palm, travelling over the laceration.

Joshua dares not close his eyes, opens them wider, observes every minute movement of the way Jeonghan’s own lashes flutter closed, his stuttered breath, and the quiet reverence he bestows upon Joshua’s hand. Kisses up and down, like memorizing the taste of his skin. He leans back, looking up at Joshua with absolute reverence.

Joshua’s blood is on Jeonghan’s mouth. Joshua would prefer it was replaced with his own lips.

 

 

When the rain comes, it never leaves.

Water soaks through the layers he wears. His shirt clings to his skin. Cold begins to creep in, and it starts off wholly unpleasant and escalates to concern. Blood lurches under his pulse. The Frost makes itself known.

It would be better off if he had run off when the hunters had first arrived, vultures descending on a fresh kill. He had thought about it for a second, decided against it, had all these illusions of grandeur and nobility, these ideals of protecting Seungkwan, one defect against the might of the Order. Foolish, but Joshua is familiar with his particular brand of idiocy and can attribute to good intentions to it. Everything after that, however, seems to have had a distinct result in the downturn of his life. When it all ends, he’ll have a lot to make amends for— if he’s still around. Death swirls around like a physical fog and most distressing of all is how acclimatised Joshua is, how it just feels like air. He had thought about leaving, and truthfully, he’s glad he didn’t. That irrational part of him that’s kept heavy in his chest craves the company of Jeonghan next to him, in the way that two souls destined to distance attempt to overcome their own nature.

Jeonghan pulls his hood over his head. Golden strands peek out underneath.

“I think the storm chased us,” Jeonghan says, gazing up, covering his eyes with the curve of his hand. “You’re the expert in the climate, how long will this last?”

Joshua contains himself, ignores the part that experiences joy at being asked as the authority. “It’s bad,” he sums up. “This kind of weather isn’t common, but the season’s changing. The thunder’s in the distance. It’ll last at least a day. Probably more.”

“ _More_?” Jeonghan’s resounding reply is diminished under the crack of the sky. “Joshua, we’re hours away from the Mire. Is there anywhere else for us to go?”

No. “Only the Western Ramparts, and that’s just as far.” Not to mention Joshua would most certainly be hung the moment he steps inside. “There’s not many villages here, the forest is too overgrown, and it’s too prone to mudslides and floods—”

Lightning flashes, and Jeonghan’s face illuminates like a wraith in daylight. “What direction is the Ramparts?”

“Along this path to the left, but we can’t go there, Jeonghan, you can’t—”

He silences him with a look. “We aren’t. Follow me. I think I know somewhere we can go.”

Certainly, standing still as their clothes become more and more soaked is not an option, and Joshua is inclined to move as well. Doesn’t want to give the Frost even the invitation. He runs his hand over the mane of his horse, coaxes him forward. Jeonghan doesn’t speak as they gallop forwards. Would be difficult to hear over the sound of the rain, but Joshua would appreciate clarity on the choice of direction.

But there’s only so much riding in the clear direction of Seokmin’s domain before Joshua has to weigh up the consequences of freezing in the storm or being put executed at an Order stronghold.

“It’s so cold,” Joshua says, his voice coming out in fractures. The rain beats against every inch of exposed skin with the force of daggers. “I’m so cold.” Saying it out loud doesn’t have any effect on the world around him, it doesn’t cause the clouds to fold up and pack themselves away, it doesn’t cause the leaves of the trees to erupt as an umbrella.

“The rain isn’t stopping,” Joshua says, voice straining over the sound of thunder. “Where are you _going_?”

Jeonghan shakes his head. “A little while further. Trust me, I’m certain I’m in the right direction. Just some of these trees are… _they all look the same._ ” He grumbles the last part under his breath.

What Jeonghan was looking for presents itself in the form of a flag, the Order’s insignia branded upon it, shaking in the distance, completely vulnerable to the elements. It’s difficult to make out the shape of the building, but by it’s tall, thin structure, it seems to be the standard kind of watchtower. Brick. The most noticeable difference between this watchtower and the kind Joshua used to reside in, is that this one is in the process of collapsing, half the ground floor entirely reduced to rubble, caving in on itself. As they approach, the emptiness in Joshua’s stomach feels deep enough to sink into.

He almost says something, but thunder roars ahead, and Levi rears up in fear. Her hooves are caked in mud and grass. Sympathy stabs at him.

Jeonghan swears under his breath, compulsively stroking Levi’s mane, attempting to coax the mare into submission. “Easy, girl, easy. I’ll get you out of the rain.” He looks up at Joshua. “Do you know where we are?”

“It’s a watchtower,” Joshua answers cautiously. 

“The Western Ramparts watchtower, to be specific,” Jeonghan says. Ah, yes, Joshua is  familiar with this after all. Certainly when he was here, it never appeared to look as if it was falling apart, but it was beneficial knowledge to know just how close the nearest Order outpost was to the Mire. But Joshua had merely rode past it — he did not take a step closer.

“I’ve never been but I’ve heard of it. Seokmin was talking about it the first night he was here. We— well, I had asked him what happened to all his men. He mentioned there had been a mudslide, took out half his unit in one blow some months ago. Reconstruction had begun, but they decided to abandon it,” Jeonghan pauses. “Didn’t have enough manpower to occupy the tower and the Ramparts.”

Joshua doesn’t say “it’s falling apart”. Instead, he gazes towards the watchtower and regards it carefully, in absolute silence.

“I know, it looks… dangerous. But it can’t be worse than the storm. Even if we have to stay in the damn barn, it’s better than this. Even if it’s locked,” Jeonghan shrugs, “I’m certain there’s some way to enter it.”

According to the Citadel’s Architect, watchtowers must have a set of quarters reserved for the presiding Inquisitor. In order to prevent any insubordinate hunters from making use of the double bed, private bathroom and linen sheets, the doors are locked with the Inquisitor’s ring, and only open upon insertion. Joshua can’t help but realize that in a little while, Jeonghan wouldn’t have to engage in such menial pursuits such as _breaking in_. He’d have his own ring. He’d have a Mark, he’d have a title, he’d have a wing in the Citadel, and maybe he’d finally have the Tower he dreamed about for the past ten years. Jeonghan pulls down on his hood, shielding his eyes from the rain.

“Go ahead,” Joshua says. His words are so brittle, they snap as they leave his mouth, pouring emotion all over the floor. “The sooner you get there, the sooner you’ll be out of the rain safely.”

The flag waves so wildly in the wind, a sickening welcoming gesture.

“What are you talking about? Come with me, you can’t stay out in this storm,” Jeonghan says. “Don’t be so stupid, Joshua, come on.”

“I’m not part of the Order.”

“That has nothing to do with this. We both know Seokmin isn’t there, no one’s there, it’s _abandoned_ ,” Jeonghan’s voice grows higher and higher. “You can’t expect me to just leave you here.”

How much longer would Joshua run his fingers down his neck to find that choke chain has grown tighter? What more can he do, how much more of himself can he lose, how much more can he bleed out when the water’s already stained a perpetual crimson? He’s a world away from the Order, and yet their tendrils crawl all over him still. He sees it everywhere, sees the insignia in the rings glinting off his fingers, on the flag in the distance — and on Jeonghan.

It’s a warning.

“I’m not going in there” Joshua says. He realizes he can breathe again, that it’s freedom that he’s tasting, mixing in rainwater. He’s unsteady as he jumps off his horse, skidding on the wet grass, but balances himself, clutching on the horse’s hind leg for support. “I’m not.”

He never got the chance to walk away from the Order. The Order kept him on the tightest possible leash, and he’s never had the space to breathe, but he’s not who he was before. He’s felt the warmth of freedom, and he’s prepared to claw off every rusted shackle chain by chain with his fingernails if he has to.

“Joshua, what are you…” Jeonghan’s voice has taken on a panic.

“The Order doesn’t have a hold over me anymore. Jeonghan, I look at that tower and I don’t see that one, I see all of them I’ve ever been and it disgusts me to think that was who I used to be,” Joshua says. The Citadel Architect uses the same plans for all towers, after all, and Joshua has not only seen them before, he’s _lived_ in one of them. He can map out every detail of the outpost at Fort Whitewater, the viridian curtains enclosing oval windows, the sound of sharpening blades, the perpetual taste of guilt under his tongue. Remembers washing his hands in the bathroom, taking so long the other hunters make jokes about his poor digestion, not understanding he’s trying to get rid of the soot under his nails. “I’m not one of you anymore.”

Jeonghan leaps off of Levi, lands on the ground roughly. “Joshua, come back! You can’t walk off like that, what about the _storm_?”

As if on cue, everything brightens blindingly white, and Joshua’s eyes squeeze tight out of reflex. When the lightning passes, he opens them. Something still blazes in Jeonghan’s eyes. “I’ll find my way back.”

“Joshua, it’s too far, you _can’t_ ,” Jeonghan says. Despair is thick in his voice. “The building has been abandoned for so long.” He swallows. “No one is here. We’re alone. Please come inside with me.”

All he sees is the insignia on the flag, the one burned into the back of his mind.

“I won’t do anything for this Order anymore.”

Jeonghan pushes the hood off his head, exposing the trusses of blonde hair that flows out. “Then fine. Let’s keep riding. I’m not leaving you.”

“Jeonghan, what are you saying?”

“I’m not leaving,” he repeats.

“There’s no reason for you to not want to go in there,” Joshua continues, confusion clouding him. “This is your people, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan makes no movement. “They’re not you.”

He wants to believe it’s the Frost that hits him now, that causes his breath to grow shallow, for his heart to feel like it’s struggling to beat. That this is an effect of being out in the storm for so long, that the rain has caught a grip on him. And yet, Joshua knows this is false. This isn’t the Frost. It’s not cold that he feels inside. It’s warmth.

“Don’t do it for the Order. Do it for me. Joshua, I don’t want you to get hurt out there,” Jeonghan pauses. “But if you don’t want to go inside, fine, I won’t either.”

He thought he knew how to leave Jeonghan. He’s been imagining it for so long, and _he’s done it before_. He should just be able to walk away and he can’t. He’s known what it’s like to live without Jeonghan for so long but this is different to what it was. Bubbles up. _Ferments_. This is loss that’s been brewed, the longer it’s been left to linger the more intoxicating it’s become. And Jeonghan is close enough that Joshua can see the water clinging to his face. A droplet rolls off a strand of his hair, falls to the side of his neck. Joshua wants to taste it.

“You wouldn’t last in this storm. Joshua, I’m not allowing you to leave me,” Jeonghan says — and then falters. “I’m asking you. I’m begging you. _Please_ don’t leave.”

It would be easier, Joshua decides, if Jeonghan was less beautiful. Joshua does not consider himself to be a person tethered to the trappings of the material world, and of his many, many flaws, vanity is not one of them. He doesn’t dedicate himself to the pursuit of wealth, is never quick to anger, and is comfortable with the barest minimum. But Jeonghan is an exception, as he’s always been. He’s stunning, and the cascade of blonde that rains down from his head has just exemplified what Joshua has always found to be his weakness. That Jeonghan is beautiful, and Joshua would go down on his knees if it just meant that the sun would rise over Jeonghan’s head again.

“Let’s go inside,” Joshua says, his voice quiet.

It’s never been the Order. It’s always been Jeonghan.

 

 

“I’ve just checked on the horses,” Joshua says as he pushes on the door, letting himself back into the main quarters. “They’re cold but they’ll be fine.”

The barn was sparse, but relatively undamaged, the horses grateful for the shelter. Levi had whinnied when Joshua left, and the part of his heart the mare was carving for herself ached to stay longer. But his bones ache, and Jeonghan was upstairs, and he didn’t want to worry him.   

No reply emanates from the room. Jeonghan is probably in the bathroom, or scoping out the rest of the tower. He should be careful, most of it is in a state of disrepair, with floorboards buckling underneath their feet. The mudslide’s damage had appeared to take out most of the ground floor, but it was clear reconstruction had begun, with natural debris having been cleared away. However rickety the staircase seemed, it led to a stable upper floor, and when Jeonghan had noticed the Inquisitor’s quarters open, it hardly seemed like a difficult decision to go inside, instead of the dismal hunter bunks.  

Joshua shrugs off his wet outercoat, lays it over a chair. It’s shoved into an ornate desk, in perfect alignment with the decoration with the rest of the room. The Order spends far too much time and money in aesthetics. The wood alone must have cost a fair price, it’s not the local lumber from the forests surrounding the Citadel, had to have been imported. Indeed, even the bathrooms had been stocked with towels, spare sheets in the wardrobes, everything seemed to suggest a return that would never materialize. The whole tower is abandoned, and no one will ever use these desks again, and it’s hard not to grimace at the wastefulness of it all.

He runs his hand at the back of his nape, wipes off the rainwater collected there. Joshua had been cautious when he approached Levi at first, knew her reputation of biting, and while he thought they were on good terms, he wouldn’t have put it past Jeonghan to instruct her to attack Joshua at first glance. Entirely irrational. Levi had whinnied, high and pretty when Joshua stroked her mane. It’s hard not to be entirely enamoured by such a beautiful creature.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.”

He’s surpassed the point of being surprised at seeing Jeonghan. He’s seen his teeth grit in fury wielding a sword and he’s seen his face illuminated by firelight. He’s seen him as a child, face full with youth, and he’s seen him as a teenager, gangly and awkward. Still, he wished he could have been given some warning before looking up and seeing Jeonghan in his current state of undress.

He’s clothed— _barely_ , stripped down to his innermost shirt and pants. His cloak is removed, so are all the other indications of his uniform. His hair hangs damp around his shoulders. It echoes the moment Joshua had caught him in the inn, but that had been a warm room on a hot evening — and this is everything but that.

“Is Levi okay?” Jeonghan asks. He’s holding a towel over his arm.

“She’s fine,” Joshua nods. “The other horse as well. It’ll be cold but they’ll be fine. We’re far more likely to freeze in here, I think.”

While the main quarters seem waterproof, the draft from downstairs is unmistakable. Background noise of rain dominates the undertone of their conversation. It’s jarring, in a way, gives a new meaning to the weight of silence. It’s warmer when they light the fireplace, bathes the room in an amber glow.

Jeonghan smiles a little, like it’s not really funny but he doesn’t want to continue the conversation. “I found another towel. Do you need it?” Holds it out like an olive branch.

The atmosphere between them is crackly, feels like the air is about to ignite. “No, it’s fine,” Joshua shakes his head.

Jeonghan nods, wraps the towel around his hair, starts to dry it. Blonde streaks fall through as he does, the repeated motion of wiping through his hair. Repetitive. Almost hypnotising to watch. Endless fascination with his hair is what prompts his unwavering stare. Joshua finds himself walking forward. Presents his hands in front of him.

“Let me.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jeonghan replies, gazing owlishly.

Joshua repeats himself. “Let me.”

He surrenders the towel into Joshua’s awaiting arms. It’s not like Joshua has much practise with this, but the motions seem easy enough. He steps behind Jeonghan, runs the towel through his hair carefully, soaking up the dampness. Slow. Methodical. Therapeutic, even, the steady ebb and flow of his hands against the current of Jeonghan’s hair. At first, Jeonghan is stiff against him, but gradually he melts, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. Joshua’s fingers dig into his scalp, and a deep exhale escapes Jeonghan.

“That feels,” Jeonghan breathes out, “ _Good_.”

He nods, parting his hair further, wiping the towel into the roots. He tentatively lets his other hand drop, strokes the curtain of blonde, savours the smooth touch as the strands curl around his fingers. The proximity of his hand to Jeonghan’s nape is not unnoticed by either of them.  

“Your hair,” Joshua says by way of explanation, “It’s beautiful.”

Jeonghan hums in agreement, eyes still closed. “So I've been told.”

“By many people?”

He shrugs. “None of them were you.”

Heat spreads across his chest. Joshua attempts to focus on his task at hand, carefully drying Jeonghan’s hair with all the reverence of a priest. It’s difficult not to find it endlessly endearing, the way Jeonghan hunches down, allowing Joshua the slight advantage of height.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Jeonghan says after a moment.

The rain fills in Joshua’s answer for him. He’s glad he can’t see Jeonghan’s eyes. Doesn’t think he’d be able to cope.

Jeonghan’s told him about the ocean. About the tides. The way the water will seep into the shore, gently at first, but constantly. Unstoppable. As time goes on, it moves boundaries, goes further in, pushes itself further. And then it overtakes. Till the ocean overtakes it all. 

“Why are you still here?” Jeonghan asks, and Joshua feels the tide pull him in.

“I think you know why.”

Jeonghan's breath is warm, radiates out like the sun behind a cloud. “I'm just curious,” he says, tilting his head backwards. “How much longer will you make me wait?”

The motion of Joshua's hand stutters.

“I don't— I don't know what you mean.”

Lightning outside is weak compared to the swift, single movement where Jeonghan turns around, grabs the towel from Joshua's hands and tosses it over his shoulder, entirely disregarding where it lands. His eyes are burning coals.

"You know, Joshua, I'd say I'd walk to the edge of the world for you but I've already done that. How much more?" When he asks, it’s as a genuine question. What more can Jeonghan do, he’ll be prepared to do it.

"I think you'd let me kill you before you let me kiss you," Jeonghan says, something like bitterness in his voice. Joshua gazes down at his hand, thinks of Jeonghan on his knees, tasted his blood before he tasted his lips.

He’s given everything he could. He’s told Jeonghan everything, he’s told him how he stared at his superior officer until the spark in his eyes extinguished themselves, he’s told him that a witch saved his life, he’s told him that he’s spent the past four years of his life living like a recluse attempting to reassemble himself into parts that were a whole.

Joshua has tried so hard to wash away what the Order has done to him, to break every link of every chain. Perhaps it was never that simple. He’s a defector, he _left_ , but it’s easier to leave, harder to fight against, harder to rebel. Joshua feels his own uprising start in his chest. There’s an idea that blooms that no, not every part of the Order was flawed. Something beautiful came out of that crucible and Joshua is blessed enough to have it for this moment.

When Joshua kisses him, it tastes like rebellion.

Rain continues to pour, lightning continues to strike and the fire continues to burn — and Joshua continues to kiss Jeonghan. A sum of a thousand fantasies, nameless and shapeless, are nothing compared to the reality, of Jeonghan’s hand curling around Joshua’s nape like a vine, of his tongue pressing against Joshua’s teeth, of their breath intermixing into one.

Joshua is so intimately familiar with Jeonghan, knows every facet of every forced smile and every frown, and finds himself in the vast uncharted waters of being intimate with him. Jeonghan tips his head to the side, gently, he’s so _gentle,_ and traces kisses up and down the side of his neck, works his way back up to his cheeks and then his lips. Kisses like he’s marking the path of his way home, and maybe this is what it is, it was never the fields of their youth, it was never the Citadel, this is their home.

“You’ve made me wait a decade for this,” Jeonghan whispers into the hollow of his ear like it’s a secret just for the two of them, “Believe me when I say I would wait ten more if I had to.”   

   Joshua still holds back. Amusing, really, even when Jeonghan's fingers curl into his collar, even with Jeonghan's hair brushing the sides of his cheeks, even with Jeonghan's tongue on the inside of his mouth he's still holding back. The effort tenses up his muscles and it should hardly be surprising that Jeonghan notices. Perceptive. He’s always been that way.

It would be easy to give in, to let himself be kissed the way he's always wanted to, to let Jeonghan take everything he wants from him, everything that he's already been prepared to give willingly.

He still tries not to. Tries to centre his gravity. Remembers he's in a watchtower of the Order, that it’s storming outside and there’s so much at stake but it's hard to think about that when all that runs through his mind is how sweet Jeonghan tastes, how desperate Joshua is for more.

“There's a question that's been haunting me,” Jeonghan murmurs, hooking his lips underneath Joshua's chin, and his body responds of his own accord. “And I hope you’ll forgive me for asking, but it’s been eating me alive.”

 _I’ve told you everything_ , Joshua wants to say, _I have no secrets left inside of me, but even if I do, come in, take them all, this is yours, it’s always been yours._

Insecurity is masked by muttering the words into Joshua’s skin, quickly, in one breath, as if hoping to pass by unnoticed. Joshua notices. He always will when it’s Jeonghan. “Have you always wanted me?”

What Joshua means to do is to hold back. Is to maintain some kind of distance. To stop this from going too far too fast. What he says is: “Only you. Always you.”

Rewards for honesty are golden, impossible to earn but so covertly desired. Joshua gets his in the look in Jeonghan's eyes. Breaks him. That precise way in which he examines him, up and down, as if he cannot accurately believe he's witnessing the sight of Joshua, flushed and wanting in front of him.

There's time for talking later. There's time for talking when there's time for breathing and there's barely time for breathing now. They collide together, each kiss longer and deeper. Trying to fit decades of waiting in one moment, kiss after kiss, pausing for only long enough to connect again. Joshua's hands pull Jeonghan closer by his waist, let's his hand trace up and down the buttons of his shirt. The first one that opens is an accident. The following aren't, Jeonghan's eyes hungry, staring at his fingers, daring him to continue. 

“Don’t stop now,” he says. Joshua doesn’t. Pulls off the shirt. When Jeonghan takes his hands, running up his own chest, it’s permission to replicate the motion himself. Joshua feels like he’s being burnt alive.

 Jeonghan’s gaze is intent, takes a thoughtful journey down Joshua’s chest, and then back up. Replaces it with his hand, runs it down the expanse of his skin. Perceptive as always, he notices the way Joshua flinches in reaction.

“What’s wrong?”

Joshua stares down the hand claiming dominion over his flesh. Should be warm, but all he feels is the grip of three rings on his middle finger. It’s imagination more than anything else, phantom ice radiating from the rings, and yet he can’t stop the way his body reacts. He looks up at Jeonghan. Cannot expect to explain.

“Oh.” He catches on quickly. “The rings.”

A divide begins to form, cracks through fresh intimacy. Threatens to sever it. The haze of lust begins to lift. Joshua wishes he could fake his ignorance, but he can’t, all he sees with those rings is the invisible leash that accompanies it. He almost backs away but Jeonghan moves first.

Jeonghan lifts his hand, raises it to his lips slowly, teasingly. Slips his finger inside his mouth. Lets it linger. Pulls the rings off with his teeth. Spits it out like it’s poison. The rings shoot across the room, strikes against furniture, sound reverberating around the room. He doesn’t even look where they fall. His eyes never leave Joshua.

“Better?”

Joshua licks his gratitude into his mouth, runs his tongue along Jeonghan’s lips and teeth. His kiss tastes like metal. It’s intoxicating. Now that he _can_ touch him, Joshua wants him to touch _everywhere_ , wants his hands on his chest, around his neck, wants him outside, wants him inside. Wants everything.

“The Order wouldn't approve,” Joshua murmurs, in contradiction to the way he clasps his hands over Jeonghan's, rising up and down his chest like those tides he's read about.

“The Order isn't here,” Jeonghan says.

Jeonghan cages him in with his body on the bed. Joshua feels like he’s being trapped. Decides he likes that, likes how close Jeonghan is after years of being so far apart. Wants him even closer. At this distance, he enjoys the way Jeonghan pulls off his shirt like he’s starving, mouths at the divet where his neck meets his shoulders like he _needs_.

“What took you this long?” Jeonghan asks, voice deep and husky. And there’s meaning in that. _Why didn’t you want me sooner, things could have been different, there’s so little time left, why now?_

“I could ask you the same thing,” Joshua replies, locks his hands together behind Jeonghan’s neck.

“I had plans,” Jeonghan says. Suddenly, shamefully. His gaze fixes on a point on the pillow next to Joshua’s head. “Stupid, silly plans I made when I was a teenager with plans bigger than my own ego.”

“Tell me them,” Joshua says. Needs to know, needs to know if he felt like he was burning the same way all those years ago.

“Graduation.” The word is muffled when it slips out. “I thought— if there had been time, I would have—” he breaks off. “It never worked out. You left before.”

His exhale is heavy. “What if I didn’t? What then?”

“I wanted to fuck you, Joshua, I’ve always wanted to fuck you. I know you in every single way but this one, and the knowledge that there are _other people_ out there—” Jeonghan breaks off. His lips are swollen. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Never happened, did it?”

Would have changed everything if it did.

“But now I have you,” Jeonghan says, and there’s _pride_ in his voice. “Seems worth it.” 

“What do you want?” Joshua asks Jeonghan, forever cautious, never intruding, not even a breath out of line. He can’t stop touching, can’t stop feeling Jeonghan, every inch of their skin connection feeling more intimate than their atoms colliding.

“Just this,” he answers, connects their lips together. Jeonghan touches him like he's mapping out uncharted lands in the curves of his skin. He leans back up. Observes. Jeonghan’s stare is intent in the way it scans down Joshua’s body. His hands follow the path, quiet. Joshua knows Jeonghan better than that.

“You’re perfect,” Jeonghan says. It’s more than just a compliment. Joshua flushes anyway. “I don’t understand how you don’t have a single scar, not a single blemish.” His finger traces a path underneath Joshua’s rib, ignores the shudder it elicits. “I was _there_ when this happened, I saw the blood, I saw the stitching, I saw the scar.”

Joshua tells him the truth. “The witch healed me. Healed everything.”

“Oh,” Jeonghan replies. Keeps staring.

Aware to the contrast, Joshua can’t help but observe the map of scars and wounds that run across Jeonghan’s body. Skin that’s been burnt, that’s been battered, that’s been broken, all etched and stitched together. Joshua runs his own hands up, connects them behind Jeonghan’s neck. Brings him down to kiss him. Tries to prove that his flesh may be flawless and new, but what he feels for Jeonghan runs deeper than skin. Grinds against him. It becomes desperate now, the search for friction.

Unable to resist those most simple of temptations, Joshua's hand reaches up and curls into the curtain of Jeonghan's hair, fingers entangling in the cornsilk strands, fingers _pulling._

And Joshua has always lived his life with Jeonghan beside him, and what had been prevented by physical intimacy was compensated by emotional intelligence — Joshua _knows_ Jeonghan.

No, he didn't know that his kisses would be so sharp, or that the tug of their bodies against each other would grind in a motion that makes Joshua's chest heat up like a pyre — but he knows Jeonghan and his expressions and his sounds and all those subtle nuances in an individual that can only be understood through years of silent and consistent devotion.

When Joshua pulls on Jeonghan's hair, his eyes widen, breath stutters like the air around him has been siphoned out and whispers in a tone of absolute devastation, “ _Fuck.”_ The friction between them builds, _peaks_.

Pyrophoros exists in a state of instability. Has to be kept locked up, has to be carefully contained. It ignites in the air, spontaneously, uncontrollably. Joshua feels that. Feels that he had everything he needed to locked in the back of his mind, in the back of his rib cage. It took a kiss, it took two, it took _Jeonghan_ and he feels it explode inside him, setting him alight. He lets it burn, lets the fire overtake them both.

If it all ends in fire, if it all ends in ashes, they’ll have this. They’ll have the memory of together, their names on each other’s lips — and that burns brightest.  

 

 

Wind creeps in through the cracks in the watchtower. The air is cold, and the room is dark, the fire long having extinguished itself. Joshua can still see Jeonghan’s eyes. Wide. Looking right at him. Undercover of the sheets, they are close together, but not touching, not willing to cross the boundary.

Joshua almost wants to ask what happens when the storm breaks. What’s left when the rain clears. He doesn’t. He runs his hand along the side of Jeonghan’s face, curls a strand of blonde hair around his finger, smiles.

“ _I missed you_ ,” he says in their home language.

“ _I always miss you_ ,” Jeonghan replies.

The kiss seems natural, and that’s what they do. Rain continues to pour around them, and sleep captures them in its grip, but they don’t stop. Their mouths slide together lazily, touching for the sake of touching, after restraining for so long. Kisses descend from deeper water to the shallow. They fall asleep with their hands together. Joshua would be happy to never wake up if it meant he never had to let go.

 

The sheets proclaim their vacancy before Joshua’s eyes even open. He keeps his lids shut, attempting to control the discord in his heart. He fears he had the chance to hold everything that he wanted in his hands for one night and spilled it all. It’s with apprehension that he finally raises his lids — and the sight of golden hair soothes him faster than a cloud passing over the sun.

There’s a pleasure Joshua has never experienced before in watching Jeonghan. He’s always been a late riser, for one, and that means more often than not the situation is reversed, that Joshua ends up shaking Jeonghan to consciousness before he gets reprimanded for being late for class again. This is an altogether different and far more pleasing scenario. He dressed himself in his just his inner clothes but hasn’t even bothered to tie his hair, allowing it to flow freely down his back. Joshua remembers the way Jeonghan had come when he pulled on it. Wants to do it again.

“You’re awake early,” Joshua comments.

Jeonghan turns, and his smile is a flower blooming. “Does this count as spying? They’re never going to come back for half the stuff, and I’m rather interested to see what Seokmin was up to while he was here.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re calling it?”

Jeonghan suppresses a laugh. There’s a tuft of hair twisted to the side by sleep that hasn’t yet captured Jeonghan’s observation. Joshua feels like running his fingers through it, hopelessly endeared.

“He has piles and piles of unopened letters. I guess he assumed no one would be stupid enough to break in here.” Jeonghan considers the desk, opening a drawer.

“How long was he here for?” Joshua says, carefully. The idea that an Inquisitor was just a few hours away from Seungkwan is one that sets retroactive fear into his bones.

Jeonghan flips through several papers. “Not too long in the greater scheme of things. A year? It’s difficult to tell. Even when Seokmin’s at the Citadel, I can never seem to locate him. He’s always so _busy_.”

Joshua shifts up, pulling the sheets closer, feeling the morning chill on his bare skin.

“Oh, this is wonderful, this is a request for Soonyoung to join his parole that was denied based on his inexperience,” Jeonghan snorts. “I can’t believe anyone could actually _want_ him around.”

“He asked for Soonyoung to join?” Joshua clarifies.

“Is that surprising to you?”

“Not at all,” he hesitates. He busies himself tidying the sheets up around him as he decides on an appropriate term. “They’re… involved.”

Jeonghan turns around, and there’s no trace of the cheerfulness that dominated his face a moment earlier. “What do you know?”

“I’ve seen,” is all Joshua says.

Jeonghan’s exhale is unsteady. “I had a suspicion. For a long time already. I had no proof though, and I was never close enough to Soonyoung to ask him if he was getting fucked by our Inquisitor outright, but _oh_ , I had a feeling.” His hand curls into a fist, crumpling the letter with it.

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice.” He was so perceptive, how could he have missed their prolonged touches, their furtive glances?

“I preferred not to think about it,” Jeonghan answers. “I’d never resort to blackmail, not of someone of the Order. Especially after Soonyoung was willing to help me.”

Jeonghan’s blind faith in the Order continues to hurt Joshua. “You said that no one wanted to come with you to this part of the world, but Soonyoung did.” Joshua hesitates, unsure if he wants to continue — but Jeonghan voices no objection. “Don’t you wonder if maybe he just went with because it meant he could be closer to his Inquisitor?”

Jeonghan stares at Joshua for quite so long that Joshua wonders if he’s even listening.

“I’m going to be the youngest Inquisitor in history — but I know you would have plucked that honour from my mouth if you wanted to,” he says distantly.

Joshua swallows. “Why do you say that?”

“I can’t…” Jeonghan has difficulty speaking. “I can never see the bigger picture, can I? I fixate on the small details, I just took it on good faith that Soonyoung wanted to help me. I knew he had his own ambitions, but I never thought…”

“Oh, Jeonghan,” Joshua says softly. “I’m sorry.”

The crumpled papers in his hand drop to the ground. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it earlier. I must have seemed a fool to Seokmin, begging him not to leave me alone, when it was never even an option.” His breathing is restrained, like he’s trying to trap the anger in his chest. “Soonyoung didn’t care and neither did Seokmin, neither of them _cared_. This shouldn’t fucking bother me so much, why does this _bother_ me so much?”

The question is directed at Joshua. He seems like he wants an answer. Joshua gives him one. “Because you thought they had concern for you as a person and wanted you to succeed. You thought they cared.” Joshua can’t stop himself. “But they didn’t. They were preoccupied with their own agenda.”

Jeonghan’s smile is brittle. “That’s why I have to keep you around, don’t I? I never realize how stupid I am until I’m next to you. Oh I talk a big fucking game and I know how to swing a sword, but people just keep taking advantage of me, don’t they?”

“Jeonghan, come here,” Joshua says.

“I thought Kyungri cared, I really did, thought she saw potential in me, but no, she just wanted me away from Sejeong because they _hate_ each other,” Jeonghan mutters. He walks closer regardless. “And Inquisitor Hakyeon gave me a crossbow and it made me feel so _special_ , I thought he really cared! Until I realized he just wanted me to keep quiet about the fact he sent one of his men to his own fucking demise. They only care about themselves, every single one of them was just _using_ me.”

“Jeonghan, please come closer.” Joshua waits until he can reach out, and cups the back of Jeonghan’s neck, kneels him down. There’s a moment of hesitation before Joshua kisses him, and then there’s none at all as Jeonghan melts underneath. Joshua feels the fire that burns at the back of his throat and wants it to extinguish himself. No one in that wretched Citadel deserves a moment of his consideration, and certainly not his anger, and kisses that out of him.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan whispers, so softly and tenderly, his hands coming up to rest on the expanse of Joshua’s chest, as if to observe the effect he has on his heart for himself. “Joshua, why am I just a pawn to them?”

“Not to me. Never to me,” Joshua says. They kiss like that for a moment, until the strain of their postures demand release. Jeonghan leans back, thoroughly kissed, and momentarily calmed down. Joshua can’t help but think how helpful this information would have been in the Academy, when instead of letting Jeonghan stew in his own concoction of misery for hours, they could have just let their hands and tongues wander until he felt better.

Jeonghan leans back at the desk, sifting through letters. Joshua tries not to notice his rings seated at the corner, then tries not to feel bothered by them. He fails. He must have picked them up from where they’d fallen last night — where Jeonghan had spat them out, his mind corrects, and ignores the heat that builds up inside of him. “Anything interesting?”

Jeonghan doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, he looks up at Joshua, and in a distant tone of voice says: “This is the High Inquisitor’s handwriting.”

“Inquisitor Jihoon?” Joshua says, almost about to leave the comfort of the bed for the opportunity to read the words written by his own hand.

“No,” Jeonghan says. “My father.”

“Oh.”

In the quiet that follows, Joshua can hear the precise sound of the rain that patters outside. It’s calmed down since yesterday. He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. He doesn’t know what comes next — and doesn’t think Jeonghan does either.

“What does the letter say?” Joshua asks. “Is it about the Ramparts?”

“No, it’s actually,” Jeonghan’s voice has taken on a higher tone, “It’s about me. Somewhat.”

“You?”

Jeonghan nods. “My father wrote after Seokmin was given dominion over the Western Ramparts. Congratulated him personally as the youngest Inquisitor. Spoke about his good qualities and— and wished that I’d follow in his footsteps.” Jeonghan’s face is set in a mask of indifference that’s begun to crack. “That I’ll be an Inquisitor just like him. The youngest. Never knew my father cared that much.” Jeonghan looks up as if he’s unaware Joshua was still present. “There’s some water in the bathroom. You can get dressed. I’m just…” he gestures vaguely to the letter. “I’ll be here.”

He gives him that privacy. Allows him to work through what he needs to. He takes his time getting dressed, admires the patchwork of marks Jeonghan’s made on his body, bruises made by the grip of someone unwilling to let go after a lifetime of being forced to. Yet, as much as he favours the physical evidence of their intimacy, it’s a stark contrast to the unblemished skin as a result of Seungkwan’s healing.

Guilt sets in. While Seungkwan suffers in the attic, not knowing if he’ll live to see the next sunrise, Joshua is busy kissing the lips of the man who’ll light his pyre. His stomach feels heavy, and he wishes Seungkwan was here, wishes he could talk to him, wishes he could explain himself.

 _I care about him_ , Joshua would say, _you believed there’s good in me and you were right about that. Will you trust me on this? I believe that there’s good in him, Seungkwan, I wouldn’t have even touched him if I didn’t believe in that with every part of me_.

And Seungkwan would gaze at him with eyes that contained perpetual flecks of gold, and magic would radiate from his fingertips as he holds Joshua’s face in his hands. Always to heal, never to hurt.

_Please. Believe that there’s mercy in Jeonghan the way I do._

He pulled off his rings, tore it out with his teeth, that means _something_. Joshua splashes water over his face, blinks through it, steadies himself. No, he’s not talking to Seungkwan. Seungkwan is hours away, locked in the attic. But maybe not for long. Maybe there’s hope in Jeonghan, maybe there’s redemption within him.

Ashes don’t need to exist between them. Life can, instead.    

Jeonghan’s wearing his cloak when Joshua reemerges. He buttons it up, throws the hood over. Like he’s ready to leave. It continues to rain — there’s no point in leaving.

“And now?” Joshua asks, blinking in confusion.

“I need to check on the horses,” Jeonghan replies. “You know how I worry about my Levi.” Genuine concern is in eyes.

Relief floods through Joshua. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“I won’t be long,” Jeonghan says, gazing around the room. “I’ll just make sure they have food, water, spend some time with her…” His eyes catch on the pile of letters. They are all opened now. They have the same handwriting on all of them.

Joshua nods. “Are you okay?” Unsure how to breach the topic of the former High Inquisitor, stays on safe ground, at least for now.

“Not really,” Jeonghan replies. “But it’s fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Joshua doesn’t expect him to say goodbye, but he does. He walks up, slowly and decisively, cups Joshua’s face in his hands, and kisses him. Like it’s natural, like it’s something they always do. Jeonghan kisses him like he’s trying to prove something, licking into his lips with careful precision, like he’s memorizing the taste and shape of his mouth. They kiss and kiss, and the warmth of Jeonghan's lips melt away whatever hesitation is trapped within Joshua.

He forces himself away, breathing laboured, lips swollen. “I’ll see you soon.”

It takes Joshua longer than it should to realize that when he left, Jeonghan took his rings with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my beta who consistently saves my life and my wonderful honey shauna has commissioned the most gorgeous art of the first snow scene [ here ](https://twitter.com/pinkwinwin/status/1168919994077515778) \- and of course, a reminder of these gorgeous pieces by almay as well [here](https://twitter.com/lovefoolthatsme/status/1138845636609150976?s=19) and [ here!](https://twitter.com/lovefoolthatsme/status/1120808187874222080) see also this absolutely gorgeous art of joshua by twitter user Dulcechanshuas [ here! ](https://twitter.com/Dulcechanshuas/status/1160641346400608256)
> 
> i have to thank almay in particular for the help she's given me on this chapter, always willing to hear me out and suffer in wordsprints with me, it would not have been finished without her support. 
> 
> this chapter has a lot of scenes i've waited a really long time to show, so i'd love to hear your thoughts!


	9. Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⚔️ thank you ⚔️

The barn is empty when Joshua arrives. An anchor is in his chest. Sinks his heart to the bottom of his ribcage and further still. Somewhere further than his feet, perhaps all the way down, where bones of saints are buried. The ground is steady, though, always is, and offers no escape from the empty reality.

It's cowardly for Jeonghan to distract him with tender kisses and then run away on his horse but — it's downright devious to set Joshua's free as well. May as well have just smashed both his ankles in, it's clear he's not meant to follow.

 He trusted him, he trusted Jeonghan, he pulled off his rings, he _spat them out_. And Joshua trusted him, took the actions of a golden-haired and silver-tongued witch hunter as truth.

But he's gone. None of it mattered. Every touch and every kiss and every synchronised heartbeat were distractions, shadow hand puppets made in the light of burning towers. If Joshua divorces himself from the situation, if he arranges it sequentially, he has no reason to be surprised. It makes sense. Jeonghan is a dedicated hunter, has his entire future resting on this single witch, a life of glory that awaits him — would he really give all that up for Joshua? Of course not. It was foolish to even consider that was a possibility.

But Joshua has always been foolish.

Swampfolk, as Jeonghan would say, often seem to have the swamp inside of them as well. The Mire is slow-moving, sluggish and perhaps Joshua has been here too long because he feels that too. Objectively he realizes time is of the essence, and he can’t stand around kicking hay in an empty barn, but he can’t _move_.

Betrayal tastes so bitter. He wants to claw it out of the back of his throat with his nails.

Joshua swears under his breath, but it's all indistinct muttering, sound to fill a looming silence. Attempting to bring awareness to his body, he paces in circles. Panic builds like climbing the towers of a staircase. How long has it been? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? How far could he ride in that span of time? And on _Levi,_ a thoroughbred horse capable of extreme speed and strength, who has been built for chases? He's supposed to compete with that with his unsteady legs and clouded vision?

His hands start shaking. Seungkwan would be unprepared, all of them would be, and Joshua himself had led the hunter right towards the object of his prey. Jeonghan would sniff him out in seconds. Wouldn’t even be difficult. In fact, he’s right in _Joshua’s_ house, right in the attic, all locked away, and wasn't Jeonghan just so curious about what his life was like in the swamp? How satisfying it must be for him to have that question answered with his own eyes. His annex was better for concealing Seungkwan, of course, because Joshua would have been there to protect him.

He was supposed to.

Despair isn’t enough. Despair is easy, Joshua is accustomed to despair, used to feeling like he’s going to burn from the inside or the outside. Specifics aren’t there, but the end result is ashes, always ashes. And that was fine when it was _him_. This is more, this is a wildfire that threatens to consume the life he’s worked so hard to build for the past four years. This will damage, this will destroy and it'll be more than him alone. And it’s just like before. The specifics aren’t there, but the end result is ashes.

His boots aren’t even laced up. He ran down the stairs when he _realized_ , nearly toppled over himself in his rush to the barn, fingers shaking as he reached for the bolt but the doors were already open. Joshua had locked them last night. Knows he did.

Joshua gazes at the horseshoe smiles in the mud, and spits out: “Fuck.” When he starts, he can’t stop, and repeats it to himself as he paces. He’s wasting time, he knows he’s wasting time but what can he do? Rain batters around him and he’s got no horse. Yet, Joshua can’t help but feel that even if the skies parted to reveal a golden carriage manifesting before his very eyes, and he’d still be unable to make it back to the Mire. He let Jeonghan inside those interior walls, and without those defences, he doesn't dare move in fear of crumbling. Doesn’t possess the strength.

The distance from the watchtower to the Mire feels like entire oceans have risen while he slept.

If he was a coward, he wouldn’t leave. He’d just stay here in a watchtower that breaks down around him and wait until the same weeds that infest the tower, infest his own body, until he’s as much a part of the ground as the ground will have him. It's easier. Simpler.

But he’s not. If his own nobilities are all he has left, he'll hold them tighter. He bends down, ties his bootstraps, and starts walking.

  


  


Mud, for the first time, is useful. Jeonghan wasn’t cruel enough to take the other horse with him but can't find it particularly kind, aware it would have just slowed him down. Joshua had followed the tracks, locating the wandering creature to a meadow a few minutes away. The horse wasn’t too keen on riding again or leaving the relief from the rain the high trees offered, but Joshua wasn’t about to waste a second more.

He sets off at a sprint. Calculates the difference in his mind. Jeonghan has a headstart, and is riding a horse with speed unlike any other. Even if he didn’t know the way — and of course he knew the way, Jeonghan was always _perceptive_ like that — he’d be at the Mire ages before Joshua would arrive. It doesn’t stop him. He urges the horse as fast as it can go, knows the consequence for each delayed second. The time between them was his fault, certainly, undoubtedly, he was the one who had stood with kiss-swollen lips, gazing dreamily at the place where Jeonghan had left, not realizing the permanence.

No, it was his fault before that too, he chose to go into the watchtower, disregarding the rational part of him that insisted it was a bad idea. Because it was Jeonghan, because he asked so sincerely, and something starts to twist in Joshua’s stomach as he struggles to separate what in the reverie was real and what was not.

Bewitched is what he feels like, like the spell that covered his eyes in rose-tinted dew has been lifted and he’s in the middle of waking up. Body sluggish, mind overwhelmed. Magic never feels like this, _real_ magic, the kind that Seungkwan can do. His enchantments are warm, golden light, they make Joshua feel better, make him feel full.

If Jeonghan was magic, he’d be more dangerous than Seungkwan ever could be.

The thought of Seungkwan causes something else to twist inside Joshua, the realization of a failed duty. He was supposed to protect him. Years of experience within the Order made him the best person equipped to understand how hunters worked. Succeeded in that, at least, has kept the noses of two of the Citadel’s finest and an _Inquisitor_ from finding him. That’s why it feels like lead in his mouth, to tell Jeonghan with his own words precisely who Seungkwan is and where he can find them.

It’s taken Joshua so long to meet Seungkwan on a level they could relate. Initially he had assumed it because of the natural divide between them: Seungkwan had the power of the stars in his fingertips, and Joshua was as mundane as the dirt. That was an excuse to ignore their own similarities, a former hunter unable to shake off the idea that anything in common with a witch was a personality flaw that should be ironed out. They seemed to be fundamentally different, and it took so much time before Joshua saw that he was forcing himself to see it that way. The same way Seungkwan stared into a cauldron till his eyes grew bloodshot reminds Joshua of the extent of his own severity when it came to his training. It was easier, then, to bridge the gap, to put away the uniform, to live a life simple and meaningful.

Joshua stands to lose all of that, and everyone else too — he’d cry if he thought it would make a difference.    

     

   

  


“Why a swamp?” Joshua asked, brows furrowed. Their driver had told them their approach was near, and the news was well-received. Colour flows in Joshua’s cheeks again, and he’s keen to stretch his legs, walk around, _live_. Not quite back to normal. His teeth still lock in the night and his fingers freeze together, but that’s why Seungkwan’s here. He notices these kind of things, holds Joshua’s hand in his own. Sometimes just because he _wants_ to, which is unfathomable to Joshua. This degree of intimacy was unfamiliar but not uncomfortable.

“Why not?” Seungkwan shrugs. His legs are crossed, and he’s constructed a makeshift basket out of his shirt, ten water willows nestled inside. He knots them together, but it’s hardly a peaceful activity. Everytime the stem tangles in an unpleasant direction, a frown crosses his face, and he tuts under his breath and tries it again until he’s satisfied.

“It’s wet. Hot. Isolated,” Joshua lists off on his fingers. “Bugs,” he adds, swatting a fly that rests on his shoulder.

“There are worse things in this world,” Seungkwan replies and he would seem very calm and wise if he didn’t twist too hard, break off the stem of one of the water willows and then immediately unleash a stream of profanity. “Oh fuck me, fuck this, I’ve been working on this fucking flower crown for fifteen fucking minutes.”

Joshua's ears redden. “That was a bit much.”

Seungkwan looks up. “Oops. Sorry. Right yes, sorry, you were asking about the swamp? Well, the moisture is good for your skin. That’s something you should keep in mind, you won’t always be twenty-eight forever.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Must be that Citadel air. All that evil must clog your pores.”

Joshua can’t help but laugh at the solemnness in his expression.

“Besides that, though, it’s a quiet town. Small.” Seungkwan hesitates. “They don’t have a healer. Or herbalist. Or anything. That leaves them vulnerable in this part of the world where danger is everywhere.”

It is. The phantom ice in Joshua’s veins is inclined to agree. “That’s not a reason I expected.”

“It’s far away from you hunters as well,” Seungkwan adds, and now he looks down, focusing on the chain. “I had to leave my home because of that. I couldn’t expect my poor village to keep up with me blowing off the roof for much longer, I was far too conspicuous, so thought it was best to set off on my own.”

“Seungkwan,” Joshua says, “Are you dangerous?”

His eyes encompass flecks of gold. “Oh, absolutely. I’m extremely dangerous." There are stars in his gaze. "But so are you.”

Joshua has an obligation to kill him. The witch has admitted to his own powers, suggested times that he has caused destructions of entire buildings, and now has openly defined himself as ' _extremely_ _dangerous'_. The Order has given him training for this very moment, to be able to kill him, to stop him from harming anyone else.

There’s no malice in the gold, though. Just warmth. “When you have that look on your face, it makes me wonder what you’re thinking of,” Seungkwan notes. “But you don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to.” He smiles and places his flower crown on his head. Clicks his fingers, and the flowers begin to move, dancing in place. It’s the most pointless use of magic Joshua has ever seen. He’s never been more enthralled.

“When we get to the Mire,” Joshua says, suddenly, before he can stop himself, “I’ll stay with you for a while. Just to make sure you’re safe.”

Seungkwan blinks. “You will?”

“Yes. If you want,” Joshua’s mouth is dry. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

He beams. “I don’t think anything bad could happen to me with you there.”

  


   

  


Occupying his thoughts for most of the ride back to the Mire was precisely what he'd say to Jeonghan when he finds him there — he had no doubt that he would be there, after all. Would know him with both eyes blinded.

Profanity is what coats his tongue first, and the anger builds up at the back of Joshua's throat till he starts choking on it. Rage is poison, and he feels himself weakened by it and is almost grateful when his own delusional heart takes over, tries to coax Joshua into the belief that there's a set of ordered words that Jeonghan could use to explain his behaviour.

Perhaps there is — but Joshua can't find himself too assured by that. If a hair on Seungkwan’s head is harmed, then Joshua realizes everything’s been for nothing, and it’ll be all his fault.     

  


  


He hears the voices first.

“What part of this don’t you understand, hunter? The Frost isn’t a common cold or some rash, it’s an infection that’s consumed him entirely. You never saw him like I did. You never saw that his eyelashes would freeze shut.”

“That can't be true.”

“You think I have time to lie to you?”

Mist settles across the Mire, and it’s so common for early morning weather, it soothes Joshua in the simplest way possible. After endless riding, he’s relieved to jump off his horse, and run on unsteady legs. He can _hear_ Seungkwan and Jeonghan’s voices but only inconsistently. Their conversation modulates, peaks forming on words and then slowing, a song that Joshua was not allowed to listen to.

_“When you met him, the Magistrate was already dead?”_

He crashes through the cluster of trees, ignoring the branches that strike against his arms like they intend on punishing him. Heartbeat hammers in his ears. He’s almost there, every muscle in his body aches, but he’s almost there—

He’ll always remember that his eyes fell on Jeonghan first before they fell on Seungkwan.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan exhales. Seems he’s locked that breath up with the way he extends his name out.     

Joshua had never realized Seungkwan and Jeonghan were both blonde until the moment they stood next to each other. Distinct differences exist in their hair: Seungkwan's is lighter, cropped short — and of course, Jeonghan's cascades down in a ponytail, golden in sheen. Ironic, it's Seungkwan that seems to fit the Academy's dress code at a time like this. It’s a silly and insignificant detail to notice, but something so simple grounds Joshua.

“Joshua,” Seungkwan says in the tone he uses when he’s devastatingly angry, and Joshua has never been happier to hear his voice. He’s alive, he’s _alive_ and that’s all that matters. “You’re here.”

“I came as fast as I could, _you_ —” Joshua halts himself, stumbling over the words rushing out of his mouth. The moment he stands still, the physical exertion of the past hours race up to him. Dizziness hits him. He bends down, rests his hands on his knees and attempts to soothe the vertigo.

“Joshua,” Jeonghan and Seungkwan say together, and their voices harmonize in a way they could not.

The past and the present collides in front of him, a childhood of history and memories with the companion who knows his soul confronting the healer that Joshua would be unafraid to die for.

“You’ve got an interesting way of showing your affection, Jeonghan,” Seungkwan says, his voice like venom.

“It’s not— he wasn’t—” Jeonghan falters, “I didn’t think he’d—”

“You don’t think he’d follow you?” he finishes for him. “You didn’t think he’d do everything he can to protect me? Like he always has?”

Joshua looks up, long enough for his eyes to connect with Seungkwan’s. He wants to ask _what’s going on, what’s happened, tell me what to do, I don’t think I can decide for myself anymore, what now?_

He feels a protective hand against his back, warm and soothing. Initially confused, he rises to his feet, and it’s Wonwoo who holds him, like the shield he always is.

“Wonwoo,” Joshua’s words come out in a gasp, and he reaches for his other arm, gazing for the traces of ice under his nails. None — just the usual iron flecks. Searches for it in his eyelashes too, but he just blinks. “You're here…”

“Seungkwan healed me,” Wonwoo murmurs, his voice a rumble. Seungcheol is next to him, supports his arms. “About ten minutes after you left, actually.”

Joshua’s reflex is to turn around and berate Seungkwan for blatantly going against his wishes — but then the weight sinks in, that Wonwoo is healed, Wonwoo is fine, he’s warm and wonderful as he always is, and Joshua instantly encloses himself in his embrace. The world is confusing and overwhelming but as long as Wonwoo is in it, it becomes more bearable. He’d be tempted to stay in the safety of his hold while his heart stops tearing apart — and then he hears Jeonghan.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says in a strangled tone, his native accent slipping out. “I can’t…”

Joshua disentangles himself from Wonwoo, stands up straighter. “Jeonghan, what do you want here?”

He can see that Jeonghan hears him. Can see that just saying his name is enough to make it hurt, but he stares resolutely ahead at Seungkwan. His hand rests on Pallas.

“Forget everything and everyone else,” Jeonghan says, and it’s like he’s forcing himself into his hunter demeanour but it’s like an oversized coat, it doesn’t fit anymore, there’s too many gaps. “You were telling me an account of your time here.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Seungkwan replies. “I was telling you about Joshua.”

Jeonghan’s eye twitches. “Continue, then.”

“Ask him yourself, he’s right there.” But there’s no change in Jeonghan.

“Your life depends on answering my questions,” he says, voice struggling so hard to remain steady. “I’d start talking if I were you.”

When Seungkwan rolls his eyes, it seems like it sparks. “I was a nineteen year old in the most hostile place in Velen. I was following the trace of a disease I barely understood, and I was too late for his Magistrate. Joshua being alive today could be defined as a miracle.” And here, Seungkwan pauses. He almost whispers, as if unwilling to release these words to the world around him. “You don’t understand how sick he was, Jeonghan. You didn’t see him. He would have died in the next day.”

Jeonghan is a bowstring, poised to strike, maintaining composure. “And you healed him?”

“ _You healed him_?” Seungkwan mimics, and there’s a blaze in his expression now. “I _heal_ cuts, and wounds and the fucking flu.” Anger is potent within him, radiates outwards. “Jeonghan, I all but brought him back _from the dead_. I breathed the magic that existed inside of me into his near-corpse in this vague hope I could spark life in him.”

Joshua stares. He did not know that. Seungkwan never told him that, he said that his condition had been severe, but never went into the detail of it, not wanting Joshua to feel like he was owed to a witch.

“I watched fragments of my own soul splutter out through my fingertips,” Seungkwan says, “And I would do it again, if it’s for him.”

Joshua looks down at his own fingers, as if expecting translucency, as if he doesn’t quite realize that he’s alive.

"You are not the only person present who loves Joshua," Seungkwan’s voice bristling.

“He never told me…” Jeonghan hesitates, and it seems for a second that he wants to look at Joshua, his head turns a degree to the right — but snaps right back.

“Because you’re here to burn me alive, Jeonghan,” Seungkwan says, and there’s such _exhaustion_ in his tone. “It all comes back to this. It all comes back to you and your sword and your rings, and _me_.”

Joshua wishes he could believe Jeonghan’s confusion for clemency, but knows better than that.

Seungkwan stares with no fear. “I’m tired. You’ve arrived in my home and caused nothing but despair and misery since you’ve come. You’ve done enough damage and I’ll ask you do no more. And in exchange, you can have me.”

It takes a moment before Joshua realizes what he says. “Seungkwan, _no_ , that’s not—” Seungkwan silences him with a look.

“You’re giving yourself up to to the Order?” Jeonghan says, unable to keep the disbelief out of his tone.

“Yes,” Seungkwan answers, and it’s so alarmingly assured that Jeonghan is stopped in his tracks. Stars in the sky made Seungkwan’s magic, but he seems to be willing to tear them out himself. There's such finality in his voice, like he's committing a vow. The Mire is quiet too. Listening to him. “And if you’re going to kill me, Jeonghan, I’d suggest you do it quickly. Before I change my mind.”  

And this is different. This is not the Seungkwan that Joshua had met in the woods four years ago who’d make flower crowns and seemed to trust unconditionally, this is a mage of tremendous power who wields it so expertly he locks it inside of him. It threatens to unleash itself now.

"Burn me if that's what your Order wants, but don't you dare hurt anyone else here." The gold flecks in Seungkwan's eyes darken to coal. "We both know I'm more powerful than you."

Fear is unfamiliar in Jeonghan’s eyes, but not what remains after it leaves. Grief. “You’ve taken care of him in a way I never could for so many years,” Jeonghan says, and the admittance sounds brittle, “I can never repay you for that. There’s no sum in the world for his life.”

It feels sincere — but he won’t even say Joshua’s name.

“Let me think,” he says, holds out his hand, eyes scrunching shut. His heart races so loud Joshua is swear he could hear it beat in his own ears. But he can’t. And even if he does, it would be better to block it out. “ _Let me think_.”

Joshua wonders what life would be like without Seungkwan. He then tries to imagine a world without two moons, and finds it just as confusing, unsettling and _wrong_.

Jeonghan’s hand twitches, as if it’s writing letters in the air. 

“This is how it’s going to happen,” Jeonghan’s breath comes out in a shudder. “So listen closely. You have to remember every single detail I’m about to say. This is of imperative importance.”

Seungkwan’s nose wrinkles in displeasure.

“ _You_ ,” Jeonghan says, turns and points at Wonwoo, “You felt death approaching. Ice over every inch of exposed skin. You were suffering. I was out patrolling the surroundings after I heard rumours of wild wolves. This was a cleverly concocted plan by the witch in question and no such threat existed.”

Joshua almost interjects, almost stops Jeonghan to say _no, that never happened, you weren’t patrolling the surroundings, you were with me, you were next to me, you were kissing me, you were leaving me_.

He can’t find the courage to say it. Any words that escapes through the barricade of his teeth will unleash the flood that waits in his throat.

Jeonghan tries to maintain a steady tone, but his voice betrays him periodically. He turns his attention to Seungcheol now, nearing closer. “It was _you_ that took this opportunity to call out to the witch that it was safe. The witch, using his superior senses, was able to hear this and came rushing towards the blacksmith’s workshop and healed him using his wicked magic.”

Seungkwan’s eyes burn gold. “My wicked magic? You haven’t seen my _wicked magic_.” It’s a bluff. Seungkwan doesn’t know any. All he’s ever known is how to help.

“Just— just let me speak,” Jeonghan flusters, his voice cracking. Inhaling deeply, he steels himself. Strands of hair displace themselves out of his ponytail. “I came back. I came back and the witch was waiting for me, because he knew I was coming, and thought he could surprise me.” Exhales. “He did.”

Jeonghan withdraws his sword. Joshua’s dried blood coats the edge.

“Using your otherworldly abilities, you took possession of my sword, of my Pallas,” Jeonghan murmurs, staring down at his beloved blade. Rose quartz winks at him. He doesn’t seem to realize his fingers are tracing the red stain. “You turned it against me, and attempted to strike me down. You missed the first time. The second time you didn’t.”

Pallas ripples across Jeonghan’s arm, tracing a long line that spans his shoulder to his elbow. Jeonghan’s resulting gasp is too high, too horrible. His breathing stutters out as he gazes down. Crimson smothers through the fabric of his cloak. The sword topples to the ground as Jeonghan clutches his arm with his other hand. Blood pours out through the cracks of his fingers.

Joshua wants to run over, stop the bleeding with his own hands if he has to but he remains frozen.

 “You—” Jeonghan attempts. His eyes clench shut, and he takes another breath. Kneels down for a moment. It must hurt so much, must be agony. They always said at the Academy to be careful with swords, you could cause an accident, but nothing about Jeonghan maiming himself for the sake of a cover-up was an accident. The Academy never taught Joshua what to do about _that_ , what to do with a blade that tasted both their blood. “Fuck. Give me a moment. I’m fine. Just—” he exhales. “Just give me a moment.”

“Come here,” Seungkwan says, his lips a thin line. “I can stop the bleeding.”

“ _Don’t touch me_.” The words are forced out through Jeonghan’s teeth. “It needs to hurt. It needs to bleed.” Tears prickle the corner of his eyes. Blood drips onto the ground. Joshua isn’t sure how much more he can watch.

“Jeonghan, let him help,” Joshua murmurs. He can _see_ that Jeonghan acknowledges what he says, can hear that near imperceptible change in breathing. He has the effect on Jeonghan. Wishes it could be of some use, but continues to be resolutely ignored.

He rises to his feet unsteadily. Joshua wants to help him up, wants to do _something_ but Jeonghan stands proud, even as he bleeds. Looks at Seungkwan. He pales. “You managed to attack me. I was in shock, and as I struggled to regain my footing, we were interlocked in a telepathic battle for my sword.” He picks up Pallas, swings it around once and shoves it straight into the bark of the nearest tree. “It ended with the blade embedded in the wood, dulling the edge.” Pulls it out with difficulty, an awful sound resounding from the metal resisting against the tree.

Jeonghan takes a step forward to Seungkwan. He stands his ground, watches Jeonghan approach him.

“You had me cornered, and—” Jeonghan swallows. Pulls out the vial of Pyrophoros from his cloak. “I had no choice. You incinerated in front of me. There wasn’t even a body to bring back.” Little remains, but when dusted on the ground, it’s enough to set the surroundings ablaze.

Firelight illuminates Jeonghan’s face. Tosses the vial inside, and watches the glass crack.

Seungkwan extinguishes it with a wave of his hands, seems to pull the flame out of existence. Wonwoo murmurs something under his breath, confusion evident. But Joshua understands. Knows Jeonghan, always has, and that’s been the problem all along.

“He’s going over the report he’ll give to the Inquisitors at the Citadel,” Joshua says numbly. “And we have to remember every detail in case anyone ever comes back to check.”

“You’re going to let me live, hunter?” Seungkwan asks, each word carefully said, seeking confirmation. He tilts his head to the side. There’s disbelief in his eyes. “Really?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Jeonghan says, his teeth gritting together. His knuckles are white. “I’m trusting you, witch, you promised me you would take care of him and you have to.”

“I’ve done it for this long,” Seungkwan replies. “And I’ll do it forever.”

“Good,” Jeonghan says, and he stands straighter. “Good. Then we have an agreement. You live and I leave. We never speak of this again.”

_He’s going to return to the Citadel_ , Joshua thinks. _He’s going where his home is, and he’s going to leave me again, and I’ll never recover this time._

“And me?” Joshua asks. “Jeonghan, and me?”

Finally, Jeonghan looks at him.

Something severs inside Jeonghan and it must be something so important, so significant and so life-sustaining that when the pain diffuses onto his face, he looks like he’s broken, and he’s been that way for far too long. “And _you_.”

“What about me?” Joshua repeats, searching for mercy but finds nothing but untouchable beauty and overwhelming grief. 

Jeonghan’s face glistens. “I don’t know, Joshua. I haven’t seen you in six years. I’ve missed you every day.” He falters, struggles to breathe. He speaks so softly, the effort alone fracturing him. “I’ll miss you every day after too. I wish there was a place for us in this world. I think I’d like to live there, but I just don’t think it exists."

Joshua fervourently wants to disagree but how can he? Neither the sprawling lands of the Citadel nor the thick swamp of the Mire seems to allow their union, and Joshua would walk across the world and look for a place if he could but worries he'd find none.

"But then again, my world has always been a lot smaller, and you’ve got this whole one to explore," Jeonghan gazes around at the thick trees that surround them, at the mud under his shoes, at the clouds gathering above. "I hope you enjoy yourself, I really do, and know that it would be easier to think about you if I knew you were happy.”

It would be easier if he was less beautiful, it would be easier if he was less _himself_ — but that’s always been the divide between them. Jeonghan remains Jeonghan.

And Joshua remains Joshua. 

“Please don’t leave,” he says, he begs, he pleads before he can stop himself. Sees his own tears replicated.

“And if you ever see Joshua again, he's this hunter I knew but I lost contact with, you know, maybe—” Jeonghan’s voice catches, struggling in their mother tongue, “Maybe tell him I loved him. I still do. I always will.”  

  


  


The satisfaction of being right doesn’t soothe him. Makes it hurt a little more, actually, because Joshua wished he was wrong about this. History aligned to his prediction, and he finds himself accepting that _yes,_ Jeonghan leaving this time had been worse.  The first time had been hard enough — but then knowledge replaced fantasy. Imagination has been brightened by the vivid colours, and his senses can only capture the most displeasing imperfection recollections of Jeonghan. Inaccurate to a dreadful degree. Even if he tries to refresh them, running memories against each other like water and soap, it washes away more every time. He can vaguely recall the warmth of his kisses but it’s like trying to keep a thread from unravelling — the harder he holds on, the further it tangles away from him.

Routine, or the disordered array of somewhat daily tasks that need to be done, sets itself back to what it was. That’s exactly the cause of that vacancy in Joshua’s chest, knowing that things are exactly as they were but he is not.

He’s back to missing Jeonghan, he supposes. That didn’t change.

Doesn’t expect it to hurt that much, though. Gazes into the woods and expect the curl of blonde hair radiating in the sun, the gentle hoofbeats of the most charming warhorse this side of Velen, the peace that can only be found in the smile of his closest companion.

There’s a desert in the concave of his ribcage and each grain of sand is more time that passes. Replays his voice like symphony sometimes. Thinks about moving on sometimes too, but never gets too far, can’t forget Jeonghan as easily as he can forget himself. That’s what the intimacy does, intertwined them so closely together. Filled in those cracks he’d had in his own self just to break again. Gets considerably harder to reconstruct each and every time. There's noticeable gaps in the pieces of himself he's lost. He had just started getting used to him, to having him back. He has dreams sometimes, and Seungkwan never asks him about them, and that is a mercy he’s incredibly grateful for. They’re never nightmares — they’re always beautiful, and perhaps that’s even worse.

Seungkwan’s cheeks start to fill up, and he notices too, of course. He always notices.

“Help me,” Joshua says, one day, staring at a scar on his hand that he refuses to let Seungkwan purge away. He doesn’t know precisely what he asks for, but Seungkwan understands.

“Come closer,” he says, quietly. Joshua obeys, rests on his haunches in front of him, presses his eyes shut. Wants nothing more than to stop his lungs from filling with sand. Waits for the muted glow of yellow light to filter through his vision, for that delicate hum that fills the air.

Neither occurs. A pair of warm arms wrap around him, and Seungkwan sinks down to his level, embraces Joshua so tightly. The shock of the affection rumbles through him like an earthquake. Tears spill out of him before he can stop.

“You said you’d help me.” Joshua’s voice cracks on the aftershocks.

“I am,” Seungkwan replies, and it sounds heavy. Like he’s carrying some of the weight. “You never told me to use magic.”

He didn’t. Joshua’s right. He closes his grip around Seungkwan tighter, like it can block out the world.

“I can, if you want me to,” Seungkwan says. “But I don’t think you do.”

Seungkwan can do the most spectacular things, can turn gold into silver into ashes but doesn’t think he can remedy what’s wrong with Joshua. Not as easily as he would hope. And he trusts Seungkwan. Knows that if there was anything he could do, he would have done it months ago, when Joshua would spend his nights, eyes wide, mentally mapping out the path back to the Citadel.

It’s warm in Seungkwan’s embrace, it always is. Smells faintly of sage and iron flecks, and it’s so soothing, Joshua melts against him. Allows himself affection and comfort, that he’s been carefully distancing himself from for so long, deeming it necessary punishment for the indirect harm he caused to Seungkwan.

“I know you miss him,” Seungkwan says. “I’m sorry he couldn’t stay.”

“He didn’t want to,” Joshua replies. There were options. He could have, could have built a life that bloomed in the ruins of a watchtower, but he didn’t. Instead he picked up his rings, kissed Joshua so hard it made a mark in the center of his mind and left, took his horse and _left_ , like it didn’t matter, like nothing mattered, like Joshua never mattered—

“He let me live,” Seungkwan tries to say, like it’s a joke. “Could be worse.”

Indeed, could be infinitely worse, and Joshua tries to think of that, but it’s hard to think of that when he feels his own heart lurch at the thought. It’s not ‘ _better_ ’ that in some likely reality, this conversation never occurs, that ashes replaced what Seungkwan once was. It’s just always going to be terrible, Jeonghan is always going to be associated with ruin in his mind and Joshua wishes he was strong enough not to want that. 

Seungkwan pulls back slightly, cups Joshua’s face in his hand. A frown upended on his round cheeks. “Do you want me to do anything?”

“Yes,” Joshua nods. His voice cracks a little. “Make those lights. The little ones. I like those a lot.”

His eyes sparkle with flecks of gold. Seungkwan has always looked like he’s plucked the stars out of the sky. No, not plucked. Like someone gave them to him, because he smiled so brightly one day, and it was impossible not to love Seungkwan, not to want to give him every celestial body in the two moon sky if that’s what he wanted. He clicks his fingers and orbs of light illuminate the room.

“Better?” Seungkwan asks, shyly even.

“Yes.” Always.     

# 

Winter comes, and Joshua’s fingers freeze themselves together until Seungkwan pries them apart in warm light. Even so, it’s the gentlest winter in a while, and he only loses a week to the Frost before he’s up and running around the Mire again. Seungkwan is happy with his recovery but warns him against going too far out by himself, but Joshua’s inventory collecting skills are unrivalled, and he notices the diminishing supply of sage in their stocks. Takes it upon himself to collect that, and then some. He’ll feel less useless, and can pick those gooseberries Seungcheol’s little one likes.

The day is nice as well, the sun warm against Joshua’s back. He bends down, lets the warmth soothe his aching joints. He keeps mental notes in his mind about the mushroom patches growing, thinks about telling Seungkwan and then decides not to, lest he send him out next storm with a craving for risotto.

It’s nice to be out again. He’s made a home in the Mire, and he finds comfort weaving through the cypress trees, careful not to step in puddles.

When he hears a creature near him, Joshua’s initial reaction is to back away. Proven time and time again to be a hunter with much to be desired in terms of temperament, and with no weapons either, he’s content to let whatever beast pass him by with no conflict. He sees the figure through gaps in the cypress, hears one of its legs squelch in the mud and struggle to wriggle it out. He almost runs away when he hears it breathe — but it’s nothing like a wild boar, nothing like a wolf, nothing even like a monster, like the drowners that plague the Mire.

“Levi,” Joshua whispers as the horse nears towards him. At the sound of his voice, Levi trots forward, expectancy in her wide eyes. Joshua foregoes all rational thought at the sight of her, and strokes her black fur, savouring the sensation. She whinnies in appreciation, curves her neck around Joshua as if to trap him in her embrace.

“It’s really you, girl,” Joshua murmurs, running his fingers under her chin. “There’s no other horse like you, no, not at all, I’d know you instantly, look at you! You're looking so big and strong, my lovely girl…” It is Levi, undoubtedly, no horse can seem so elegant in the middle of a swamp. “How…”

The answer formulates itself before the question does. It’s something unsettling in his heart, a tumultuous storm drawing near. Jeonghan is near, absolutely, certainly, probably, possibly. What other explanation could there be for Levi to be in the Mire?

So many, and Joshua already makes them up, it’s far more plausible than any other reality. He believes in destiny, though, he has to, it gets proven to him far too many times to be neutral towards it. He pats Levi a final time before stepping into the direction she came. Listens for sounds, looks out for tracks. He can hear Levi whine behind him, following at a distance, but it’s difficult to determine where she came from. Whoever brought her here seemed to have ran off at the first opportunity, not even bothering to tie her up. Joshua feels a rush of protectiveness and slows his pace down till she catches up.

He tries to hear for birdsong, for conversational chatter, for the barked commands of the Order. What he hears instead is the unmistakable sound of absolute grief.

There’s a man at the side of a lake who’s unfathomably beautiful, even as tears run down his face. The sword is his hand must surely be heavy with the way it shakes. Joshua wants the reverie to maintain for a few seconds longer, just to memorize the image. Just in case it’s not real, just in case disappears.

Jeonghan is on his knees, blonde hair spilling out like a curtain. Rose quartz winks through the hilt.

He hasn’t noticed Joshua approach. Didn’t expect him to either. This is what it’s been like for so many years: Joshua content to watch Jeonghan shine and glimmer in the light, content being unnoticed.

Jeonghan raises the sword behind him. The angle is awkward — he hesitates with Pallas above him.  Joshua would do something if he wasn’t so absolutely certain this was an illusion of his own manifestation. He’s had dreams about this for so long, about finding Jeonghan in some unrealistically perfect circumstance — this one is just considerably more detailed.

Jeonghan’s hand shakes.  The blade slices through his hair, and time takes longer as blonde locks fall like rain around him.

And Jeonghan cries louder, and Joshua could never let him be in pain.

It’s not a conscious decision, it’s a _reflex_. Joshua rushes next to him faster than the realization of this reality. He forces the sword out of Jeonghan’s hand himself, and that offers an uninterrupted view of who wielded it. And it is _him_ , it is Jeonghan, from his stormy eyes to his carefully cut face, this is Jeonghan and he’s looking at Joshua like a dying man in the desert.

“Joshua, you’re here,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “Oh I hoped to find you— I thought I’d first—” he starts stuttering, tripping over his own words. He settles for an exclamation of absolute relief. “ _Joshua_.”

“It’s you,” Joshua murmurs. It wasn’t a dream because the dream would end now. His dreams would always be composed of fairytale fresh illusions, of forgiveness and redemption, always ends beautiful. When he’s asleep, he nevers feels the negative emotions and now, now he feels nothing but anger, feels something inside of him ignite. Burns every other thought and feeling away. “ _How the fuck are you here_?”

“Joshua,” Jeonghan whispers. His face is splotchy, his eyes swollen. “Joshua, I’ve done very bad things. Joshua, I can’t do it, I need to cut my hair but I can’t do it, but I have to, _but I can’t_.”

None of what he says makes sense and that just frustrates Joshua even further, he wants sense, he wants answers, he wants an apology for the past year. He gets none of those. He gets Jeonghan, distraught beyond recognition with a sword in his shivering hand. Joshua doesn’t care, he’ll take it anyway.

“What are you doing here?” Joshua demands.

Jeonghan seems to answer in a more direct capacity. “I’m trying to cut my hair. I have to. I’m trying but it’s so hard, the angle is so difficult, and I can’t get it—”

“Why your hair?” Joshua asks, staring down at the strands surrounding him already, cornsilk on the grass.

“I have to,” Jeonghan picks the sword up again, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the hilt. “I have to or they’ll recognize me, please just let me and then I can talk and I can tell you everything, but I have to do this first—” The second attempt is worse than the first, and he barely misses scraping his own neck. He manages to cut a handful of strands. “Fuck, come on, I just need to—”

“Let me.” He exhales. “Jeonghan, give me the sword.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Jeonghan says, his voice soft. “I had a plan in my mind, of how to approach you, I was going to be on my knees, I had what I needed to say.” Typical Jeonghan, to rehearse everything in the hopes preparation would be his shield against the world. “But you’ve already found me,” he continues, sounding a little awestruck. “You’re already helping me.”

Joshua did not account for the intimacy of what he was offering. His hand is on Jeonghan’s nape, and he can feel the skin underneath shiver. He thinks he’s above it all, thinks he’s put all these memories and feelings away and yet he can’t ignore that he could strangle him, revenge for a hundred witches and a hundred still to come, make him apologize for hurting everyone around him and hurting _him_ most of all. But the anger doesn’t last long enough. Can’t keep him going, it’s a match that extinguishes out the second it’s lit.

“I need to be inconspicuous,” Jeonghan says. “And besides, I know that the edges are—”

Burnt. That’s what they are. The edges of the left side of his hair are burned, the strands messy and twisted in a way that only fire can manipulate. Joshua feels sick. Imagines a pyre so tall and wide that the blowback is even more. “Who did you burn?” _Did they have a family? Did they deserve it?_

“The Citadel Archives,” Jeonghan states, and Joshua’s hand falters.

“That’s impossible.”

“My hair, Joshua, _please_.”

Joshua inhales, stares at the hair within his grip. Thinks of how obsessed he’s been, the reverence he’s treated these golden strands. Could almost believe that it was this which tied them together. Cuts them away with one strike of Pallas. Doesn’t feel any differently towards Jeonghan, but that was wishful thinking.

Jeonghan doesn’t even say thank you, merely rushes to kneel over to the side of the lake, attempting to distinguish his reflection in the murky water. His hair is choppy, uneven at sides, barely longer than Joshua’s own. Joshua thinks of how proud Jeonghan was of his hair, how it was the only act of rebellion he’d ever allow himself. Feels something strange in his stomach wondering exactly what could prompt Jeonghan to act quite so recklessly. “Good. Good. Better.” He takes his time before he looks back at Joshua, and when he does, he says nothing at first. Just stares at him long enough to memorize his face.

“Jeonghan,” Joshua says, and he means to ask how he ended up at the bottom of the world again, why there’s so much desperation in his voice, but it’s his heart that speaks before anything else. “Why did you leave me?”

Jeonghan falters. “I don’t have an identity, Joshua, I don’t have a life outside of the Order. My companions, my duty, my family — _my father_ , it’s all in that organization and I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t.”

_But you could_ , Joshua wants to say.

“I had to. I couldn’t stay here, you can understand why. I don’t _belong_ here,” and first, Joshua feels himself offended at this. Yet again, Jeonghan thinks himself too good for the Black Mire, what a ridiculous assertion when anyone who lives here is worth a thousand of those silver-spoon nobles around the continent.

Jeonghan looks up, notices the upturn of Joshua’s brow and instantly apologizes. “I misspoke. It’s not like _that_ , this is why I wanted to think about what I said before I say it—” he trails off. Inhales. “I don’t belong here like you do. You have people who care about you, who _really_ care, you have a life and skills and talents and I have nothing. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is being a hunter.”

His concern is valid. Joshua just wishes he’d have said it sooner, because then he could tell him, yes, he’s been through the same thing, he’s carried the same burden up the same mountain. At least now, for Jeonghan, he could lead the way through a path he had to forge himself.

“Then why are you here, if there’s no place for you?” Joshua says, tries to sound diplomatic but just comes out sounding hurt. As if to say, _no, if you don’t want to be here, don’t even bother, I’ve tried so hard to convince you that I can offer no more._

Jeonghan is quiet for a moment. A beetle crawls over his hand, and he lets it happen. Doesn’t react when Joshua swats it off either. “I spent months at the sea, you know? Inquisitor Kyungri had me stationed there for so long, I almost picked up the accent. Every single day I walked onto the sand, and woke up to the sound of the waves. It was a different life.” He drops his gaze. “Then I was stationed at the Northern Shelf. That was nothing but misery in that frozen wasteland. The blood we spilled stained the ice.”

“I know,” Joshua says. Because he does. Jeonghan has told him that before, and Joshua always remembers.

“But you don’t,” Jeonghan says, and finally looks up. “I’ve been across the world, and been different people every time. I’ve always been able to return to the Citadel, step back into who I am, but I couldn’t this time. I couldn’t come back from the Mire.”

He’s always had chameleon skin, been too good at blending in with those around him even at the loss of his own colours.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that happened here. I’d be walking the Citadel grounds and I couldn’t get any of it out of my head. Interrupts my day and my dreams.”

Unsatisfactory sleep seems the least worthy of complains anyone of the Order can have, and Joshua almost says as much, but gazing at Jeonghan’s dark-rimmed eyes, it’s clear this is more than insomnia. Guilt, more than anything else.

“I thought a month would pass and I’d forget. Then I thought perhaps a season would pass and I’d forget,” Jeonghan grabs Joshua by the front of his shirt, gaze wild. “It’s been a year and I still can’t forget. I can’t forget the sticky humidity against my skin, I can’t forget the conversations we shared by firelight and _I can’t forget that witch_.”

Obsession. After all this time, it still comes down to Jeonghan’s obsession with witches. Joshua throws him off in disgust. “So you’ve come back to burn Seungkwan? You couldn’t let it go.” Bile wells up in his throat. “You can’t let one _healer_ free, you just had to cut that final loose end.”

“No, no, _no_ ,” Jeonghan’s words come out in a rush, and he clutches for Joshua like he’s the last boat in the ocean. “No, it’s not like that, no, I didn’t come here to _kill_ him, no, I just… I couldn’t. I can’t anymore.”

“You can’t _what_ exactly?” Joshua asks. His heart races, unsure of how many times Jeonghan will come into his life and cause nothing but chaos and pain, and Joshua will let him.

He clams up again, mouth closes. His fingers dig into his palms. When he finally does speak again, it’s quieter. Controlled. “They could tell something was wrong when I got back. Said I had this haunted look about me. They even told me to visit Sejeong, but I refused. It wasn’t the first time something wrong had happened and they let me stay at the Citadel until I was ready to leave. But that was taking too long, months had passed and I still can’t even hold my sword properly, I don’t like going outside, _I hate the sunlight_.” If his skin is paler than usual, Joshua wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know what ‘usual’ is when it comes to him anymore.

“So they kept me there for longer, it’s quite uncommon you know, but they figured I’d sort myself out but it’s been a year and I still can’t do this anymore.”

Sounds like guilt, sounds like the kind of guilt that’s like rust around your throat, that peels off just to expose more vulnerability.

Joshua has to pause. He had hoped that Jeonghan would have been at least slightly affected by the events that unfolded in the Mire — would have felt devastated if he didn’t, if Jeonghan walked away unscathed. But Joshua would only have expected his despair to last as long as it takes the self-inflicted wounds to heal. Certainly not the entire year they’ve been apart.

Jeonghan’s hands are folded in themselves. “They want me to lead a crusade.”

“Why would they want you to lead…” he pauses. Gazes down. And sees the ring that adorns his thumb.

It's far more golden than his hair. The ring is thick, and emblazoned on the metal is the seal of the Order but truthfully, it's existence would have revealed itself even if he couldn't make out the image. It's the arrangement, more than anything else.

All Jeonghan ever wanted was to be Inquisitor. Being the youngest in history must just be an additional victory.

It's on an impulse that Joshua reaches forward, takes Jeonghan’s hand in his own, runs his fingers over the newest additions. It shines brighter than the others, the older ones. It’s strange that Jeonghan wears rings that Joshua’s never touched, and it’s for that reason, he encloses Jeonghan’s hand in his own.

“What was it like?” Joshua asks, staring down at their connected palms. Doesn’t feel surprise. Just feels emptiness.

“The whole Citadel came to watch,” Jeonghan says. If Joshua closes his eyes, he can imagine it. “There were flags hanging high, and the walls were draped in banners. I kneeled in front of High Inquisitor Jihoon and he told me I was exceptional. That I made not only my parents proud, but every member of my lineage.” His eyes flutter shut, like he’s dreaming. “He gave me a robe that looked like stars and gave me new rings and called me ‘Inquisitor’ for the first time, and the whole room applauded. They said it was history being made.”

“The way you speak about your enthronement is like you weren’t even there,” Joshua says.

Jeonghan doesn’t reply. Carefully, Joshua disentangles his hand from Jeonghan’s. He surveys him, tries to find a difference in how he was compared to how he is. Funny, actually, how Inquisitor Jeonghan looks a lot like Hunter Jeonghan who looks a lot like Academy Jeonghan who looks a lot like _Jeonghan_. He’s always just the same.

“The High Inquisitor must have been so proud,” Joshua says. Feels like he needs to say something before the venom in his throat goes back down, and poisons him from the inside.

“He was,” Jeonghan replies, sounding distant. “But Jihoon always liked you more.”

There’s a pause. “I was talking about your father.”

“It’s just what he wanted.” But that’s not saying anything. Joshua stares at him until he continues. “I won’t pretend Joshua, knowing he was proud of me was all I ever wanted. It was intoxicating. For once in my life, I knew that I was living up to his expectations. I just wished it didn’t come at such a high price.”

The Order is the intersection of religion and military and while hunters think themselves more like soldiers, Inquisitors think themselves more like gods. It doesn’t seem that way to Jeonghan though, he always had divinity within him.

“Joshua, you have to help me.”

“Is that an order, Inquisitor?” The look of hurt on Jeonghan’s face feels good at first, that pain is justified, but it’s only a moment before Joshua feels guilty. He’s not used to hatred, and especially not when it’s Jeonghan.

“No. No, nothing like that,” Jeonghan shakes his head. “I can’t live like this anymore, I can’t lead this crusade, I can’t be part of this Order. But, it’s not just that. The crusade, they’ll come through here. You have to take Seungkwan away. Before they get here. I bought you time, as much as I could, but they’ll be relentless.” He pauses. “You know they will.”

Joshua’s heart pounds. Two hunters proved a quandary that resolved itself, miraculously, with no casualties. An entire crusade would wipe out the entire town of the Black Mire, leave it as a smudge on the map of the Velen wilderness. “Where am I supposed to take him? Where can we go?”

Jeonghan inhales like this is the one thing he’s prepared for. “I know a place. I know one.” His fingers twitch. “I found it deep within the Citadel Archives. It’s an island. Incredibly remote, inhabited by a mage unlike any other. It’s impossible to breach without magic. I’m the only one who knows where it is, and I can tell you how to get there. You’ll be safe.”

It sounds too good to be true. “And how do you _know_ you’re only one?” What good would it be to walk into a trap? Joshua wants to believe the sincerity in Jeonghan’s eyes, but he’s wanted many things over the years, and they’re never what it turns out to be.

“Burned after reading,” Jeonghan says. His eyes flicker like firelight.

“You burned the map?”

“No. I burned it all.”        

  


“Why don’t you help him?” Joshua snaps. His words come out harsher than he meant to, but Seungkwan doesn’t look offended. Resigned, if anything else. “Use magic or something.”

“I would if he asked,” Seungkwan replies. “Or if he’d even let me. But he won’t. And I don’t think that surprises you.”

Of course, it doesn’t. It took Joshua years to become acquainted with Seungkwan’s magic to an extent of helping him with something as simple as a runny nose. It would take Jeonghan just as long, if not even more to reach that same understanding — and he’s another matter altogether, trying to turn himself into a statue, compensating for the guilt that demands to be felt through detaching himself from the world.

“Isn’t there _something_?” Joshua says, almost pleading. “Seungkwan…”

“You know him better than me, Joshua,” Seungkwan hesitates, but continues, “But if I think I understand him correctly, I think he wants this, to feel this pain.”

Finding atonement in suffering, rather than in redemption, is perhaps the worst effect of Jeonghan’s pride. Joshua wants to shake him, wants to scream so loud into his ear that he’ll hear — that he can’t sing funeral hymns over bodies already buried, but he can look forward, he can be better.

But Jeonghan cuts himself, lets it bleed, lets it scar and fester and all Joshua can do is cleanse the wound with salt water. It burns every time, but he refuses almost everything else. Despite this, the ocean air does him well. He’s been better at Junhui’s island than he was at the Mire or on the consequent voyage here.

He never wanted to come to begin with. But Joshua couldn’t leave him behind, not with the haunted look in his eyes, not with the way he’d cower in fear, a beast waiting for the beating it knows will come. He left the choice in Seungkwan’s hands.

“Do you believe he’s changed?” Seungkwan had asked.

“I do,” Joshua had replied. That much was certain. He was not the Inquisitor he should be, nor the hunter he was. What became clear was that he was _lost._

It’s a good place to be lost, though, Joshua thinks. Because it’s by the ocean, and Joshua has always been fascinated by it, and he never takes for granted the salt-soaked air for even a day.

Joshua would want to claim that the mysticism has ended, that he’s no longer gazing at the horizon with eyes of childlike fantasy, watching the waves with confusion and awe. That would be a lie. He understands the ocean now, the gradient colours twisting into different shades of blue. The tide brushes against the shore it seems to pull Joshua with him, as if urging him to join deeper. Joshua understands this, has visited the beach everyday for numberless days, and yet can’t stop being rendered silent by the force of the water. 

It’s beautiful. The view is worth waiting a lifetime.

  


  


It’s also a kind of death. Joshua isn’t sure which of the countless burned souls Jeonghan is mourning, but he has a feeling there’s no body to bury. Grief is potent and Jeonghan moves little, isolates himself in the room within Junhui’s housing. He doesn’t wear his rings, but he wears little else, rarely changing clothes. Dust would coat his body if intervention wasn’t taken.

Joshua bends down on his knees, washes Jeonghan’s feet, his hair too. Lets his fingers run up and down, cleansing him in the hopes the relief is more than skin deep. Jeonghan would lay there, eyes closed, lets Joshua do what he does, little words passing through the stone of his lips. He might have been tempted to stop what seems like a futile action months earlier, but he’s always been perceptive to the finer nuances of Jeonghan’s emotions and can see his gratitude as clear as the ocean water. Appreciation would be shown in a non-verbal capacity — like when he forces himself through his own crystalline casing, will set his gaze towards Joshua, blink slowly as if savouring the sight.

When it’s like this, he looks at him like the first rain after drought. With reverence. 

It’s a kind of worship for Joshua too, cleansing an unreachable god, seeking glimpses through the veil. Jeonghan speaks rarely. He never tells him the full story, not sequentially, but Joshua pieces it together.

“The fire burned my hair,” Jeonghan says once, when Joshua’s fingers are deeply curled in his locks. “The archives burned so quickly. I wasn’t prepared.” His hands have been long since cleaned, but he stares at them like expecting ash underneath. Joshua is familiar with this feeling. “Pyrophoros, you know, it’s so restrained when contained but when unleashed, it’s uncontrollable.” 

Joshua is far too familiar with this too.

“And you thought it would be harder for the Order to find you with shorter hair?” Joshua says. Shock will remain imprinted in his bones of seeing Jeonghan at the lakeside, a sword in his hand.

Joshua briefly wonders if he should offer Jeonghan a haircut, having trimmed Seungkwan's mane for years. Decides against it. He's selfish enough to enjoy the sight of Jeonghan's hair growing out from its severe cut without actively planning it's removal.

“I wish I could say I thought that far ahead,” Jeonghan murmurs. His eyes flutter closed as Joshua continues to massage his scalp in the warm water. “I had everything planned to the moment I ignited the archives, I even knew exactly where the map to the island was. Everything afterward was a decision made in seconds, on instinct.” His face flickers. “I took Levi, I just knew I had to, and just went in the direction I thought I needed to.”

“Did they follow you?” Joshua asks. Jeonghan tenses.

“At first, yes. Afterwards, I’m not sure. I never looked back.”

He had done the journey before — that doesn’t make it any easier. Joshua drizzles coconut oil onto his fingers, massages it into Jeonghan’s scalp. “Must have been a difficult journey.” Maintaining cold diplomacy is all he can hope, unlocking anything deeper would be a tidal wave of emotion neither of them would be able to withstand.   

  


Time was kind to Joshua, stripped him of the memory of rebuilding himself, just left him with the fragmented shards. Hopes that time will be as gracious to Jeonghan. More, if that’s possible. Sometimes he wonders, on those sunless days, where he sits in darkness, staring at the sea, if Joshua should have brought him with, if it would have been kinder to leave him in his own delusion. He had a life with the Order, a family, and Jeonghan left it all. Did he even realize the gravity of what he’s done?

Joshua doesn't remember if he was like this, if he was so helpless. But maybe that's why. He doesn't remember. History was kind to him. Let him forget what it was like to disassemble himself and look for meaning among the strewn out pieces, try and reconstruct even when parts are missing.

And then Jeonghan tells him, one day, voice hoarse with disuse: “I promised I’d take you to the ocean.”

He did.

“And we’re here now,” Joshua says, trying to keep his voice gentle. “You were right. I like it here.”

Jeonghan gaze is distant. “We should go walking again. No shoes. You need to feel the water against your feet.”

“We can go right now if you’ll eat before.” It’s so hard trying to bring Jeonghan back to life, but slowly, he manages to. 

They walk alongside together sometimes, and this is where Jeonghan starts talking. The conversation is surface-water, littered with debris of their old lives. Sometimes he starts telling a story, trails off mid-way, realizes he’s referring to people he’ll never see again or a place he’ll never go back to. He speaks about his father once, and mid-sentence, switches from present to past tense. He closes off after that, so Joshua talks about his mother instead, about how he doesn’t remember her that well, but knows she had a broad smile and tucked him in tight every night, looked under his bed for monsters as well. Jeonghan laughs a little at that, and seems almost in disbelief. As if someone as powerful and deadly as Joshua could ever be _scared_ of something as silly as that. And that’s right, really, he’s no longer scared of werewolves or drowners or grave hags. He fears other things, fears losing Jeonghan when he’s right there next to him. But Joshua has hope.

 He gave up a lot of his dreams but not all of them. Some he locked in a chest, and this one was not under his bed.  He’s aware of what that feels like — it’s taken him years to rebuild a collection of anecdotes safe to share.

It’s enough that he tries sharing them anyway. 

  


  


“It’s too easy to rely on you,” Jeonghan murmurs. He speaks so softly that for a moment, Joshua assumes he’s talking to the fish below. They’re quite spectacular. Entire schools of pink and blue navigate the currents, swimming to an unknown destination. Vernon tells him they’re migrating, that they’ll be back next year, so be sure to wave and say goodbye. Joshua doesn’t know if the last part is a joke or not.

But Jeonghan’s confession was not directed at the fish. It’s directed at Joshua.

It was difficult for Joshua to understand why Jeonghan has been so unreachable, when Joshua is right there, when he’s gone through the same loss of faith in the Order, when he can help. And then he realized, that for Joshua, it was deconstruction of his entire identity. For Jeonghan, it’s death.

“It’s not a bad thing for me to help you. I want to,” Joshua says, sits next to him. Through the gaps of his legs he watches as the fish twirl around and around each other, a flurry of communication, as if exchanging farewell kisses.

 “Give me something to believe in, then.” Jeonghan pulls his gaze away from the horizon and turns to him. “Joshua, if all the Order is a lie, if everything I’ve dedicated my mind and body to for my entire life is a lie, give me something new, something to make it seem less like all I’ve done is ruin.”

Joshua turns to Jeonghan. The past is so palpable between them, fossils with jagged edges fall like rain and cut them to pieces. To speak about this, to speak about ruin is to remind Joshua of what it felt like when he lost himself, but he pushes through. 

Joshua has given up so much, but he’s not sure he’s willing to give up Jeonghan, not again.

  


  


Junhui’s island is out of synchronization with reality. Time flows differently here in long swells, days passing like dripping molasses. Days are long, the sun low in the sky like it’s so heavy it can’t lift itself higher. Nights come alive, the trees filled with the squeaks and cricks of insects Joshua has no name for in either of the languages he speaks. Mornings are punctuated by a premature sunrise, but never too early, never to a degree where Joshua feels like he’s lost sleep. It’s a cyclical nature but for a shape he himself is unfamiliar with.

Junhui himself eats little, subsisting on a diet of berries and coconut water — but doesn’t extend that same austerity to his guests. He has Vernon prepare lavish meals, staring in delight across from the table as they feast. Vernon seems to be a rapidly diversifying chef, and with meals of freshly caught sea bass served with leafy green salads, flaxseed oil glistening in the coconut shell bowls — Joshua doesn’t think he’s eaten so well in his life.  

For the first time, he understands the meaning of excess, of indulgence, of wasting the day away in a snooze, of eating for the joy of the meal, of walking for the beauty of the ocean. He has no goal, no purpose here and at first the anxiety of stillness eat up his insides — but like the tides he has become increasingly familiar with, it receded.

He’s without a reputation here. He’s free.

The sun is good for Seungkwan. His skin seems to glow, and any moment he’s not studying at the feet of Junhui, he spends with Vernon on the beach, turning shells into pearls into gold into dust. Joshua hears their laughters all the way from the hammocks. Rumours claimed that there lived a mage who stripped the scales of a mermaid and fashioned legs out of the remnants. It’s all just tall tales, silly stories to entertaining children but Joshua sits on the sand sometimes, stares at the way Vernon dives through the water like he was born in it, the way his own magic is drawn to the ocean, waning and waxing with the moon, and has to question his own beliefs.

Seungkwan rushes over to Joshua, tells him that he’s going further in the sea with Vernon, and not to worry, he’ll be back before dinner, and they’ll bring prawns with them, Joshua just needs to prepare the soy sauce, it’s right there in Junhui’s kitchen. Joshua just waves them off, laughs and promises he will.

If he feels free, he can only imagine what it must be like to be Seungkwan, to be able to spread his fingers and let his own magic be emancipated from the cage of his willpower.  

It’s paradise. Almost.

  


  


Junhui is unlike the humans Joshua has met — unlike the creatures too. Unlike anything ever encountered before, an entity of magic that is truly _unique_. His eyes are the palest blue, reflect the sea, his hair gold like the sun. His cloak is soft to the touch, the pelt of something too silky to be a boar, and upon his shoulder blades are sprawling leaves. Decorative, but also, _alive_. Grows and wanes with the weather, vines trailing down across his arms. Sometimes he'll tut to himself, rip off the growth that encases his fingers like it's settled dust. Nature had thread itself within Junhui, perpetual wind that blows through him— he seems older than existence.

But young, too.

Joshua sees it in the way Junhui talks with Vernon and Seungkwan, eyes curving upwards in happiness as he traces spells in the air, room bathed in light of cerulean.

"You're not magic," Junhui states, rather pleasantly one day, summoning two tea cups. A kettle whistles a melody of its own creation while he calls tea leaves to settle in place. "Not at all."

Joshua almost wants to reply with "obviously", but restrains himself from the man kind enough to provide him food, shelter and an ocean breeze in exchange for absolute and perpetual isolation. "Yes," he agrees.

"It's a good thing, you know," he remarks. Flicks his fingers, and the kettle obediently fills both cups. "Magic needs to anchor. Something to keep it from returning back to the stars." He pauses for a moment, gazes down at the flower that blooms behind his ear so quietly, as if to escape his notice. "Perhaps not anchored as much as me, I think I've taken too much of the nature in my own body. But like you and Seungkwan, that's good, keeps him here."

Joshua viewed his role to Seungkwan as an accessory at best. He nods at Junhui's comment, however, with no authority to disagree otherwise.

"Seungkwan is exceptionally powerful. He's holding back from me, actually. From himself too. I feel certain that if he wanted to, he could walk the world and the ground will follow beneath him," Junhui remarks, suitably impressed.

"But he doesn't want that," Joshua immediately replies, sitting up, "He just wants to heal people, that's all he cares about—"

"And you're right," Junhui interjects, not unkindly. In a rare act of physical movement, he reaches over the table and taps his fingers against the cup. "So I'm teaching him healing magic. You don't need to worry about him here, Joshua. I have no interest for a vessel of war." Junhui adds: "Or need."

Joshua begins to realize just how unquantifiably powerful Junhui is. He takes a sip of the tea, savours the sweet flavour. Each cup is perfect.

"You've been protecting him for a long time," Junhui says as a fact.

"He told you this?"

"I'm out of touch with the world around me. You're in my world now, though, and I know every single grain of sand." The flower behind Junhui's ear invites its friend, and a twin blooms next to it. The petals are bright orange, complimenting his blonde hair nicely.

"I'll keep him safe until it destroys me," Joshua says, easier than it ever felt.

"Love, yes?" Junhui asks.

Joshua nods. "Yes."

He’s really not human. That, or he’s forgotten how to be, is more magic in the shape of a man, than a man with magic inside of him. He seems content with this, nodding. “It’s not unheard of to be accompanied to my island. Certainly, you’d need a vessel to take you as far as you can but only those with magic could open the pathway.”

Remembers Jeonghan’s ashen face as he stared at the rising tides. He’d imprinted the map in his mind before he incinerated that as well, he didn’t _understand_. Seungkwan did though, parted the seas with his hands alone, _walked_ to the island.

“But this is where I begin to question everything,” Junhui continues. “If you are here to accompany Seungkwan, why is your companion here as well?”

Joshua sips from his cup, giving him precious more seconds to sort through his head. There are many answers to this question, and Joshua isn’t sure how much he’s willing to say, how far he can push their host’s hospitality, how many skeletons he can pull out of Jeonghan’s closet, how many he can pull out of his own. “He’s got nowhere else he can go.”

“Oh,” Junhui says. “Is he lost?”

“Found,” Joshua answers.

Junhui nods thoughtfully. He’s a very good listener. Each word Joshua says feels like it has weight when it’s Junhui who listens, who processes, who considers. His hairline is framed by the tiniest salt crystals. The creases in his skin where he smiles, looking like the sprawling roots of an oak. “Does he need a place? I can always send him back, perhaps near the mainland.”

He’s trying to be helpful, but he doesn’t seem to realize that’s not even an option. There had been gashes in Joshua’s skin and the wounds had healed around where Jeonghan’s presence arrived. Severing them would be about as easy as ripping apart his body.

“I want him here,” Joshua says, breathing uneven. Jeonghan can’t hear him, this is a fact, but Joshua still feels the need to whisper such a selfish confession.

For a moment, there’s no sound but the sea breeze. Junhui runs a hand through his hair, seems surprised when he feels petals among the golden locks, but doesn’t stop. Looks at Joshua carefully. “So it’s like with Seungkwan?”

“No, no. Different,” Joshua says. He inhales sharply, as if the air is rapidly becoming thinner. But when he speaks, it feels freeing. “Very different.”

“But love, yes?”

Joshua sorts through a thousand different responses in his mind before settling on the truth that sits firmly in the cage of his ribs. “Yes.”   

  


The garlic of the freshly baked bread runs down Joshua’s throat, and he cannot contain his delight. Vernon has taken care with this meal, topping the bread with fresh heirloom tomato and basil salsa, and beams at Joshua. He feels rather shy, and switches his gaze to Junhui. Remembers Vernon excitedly explaining that Junhui’s taught him everything he knows.

“How long ago was your last apprentice?” Joshua asks, and even Jeonghan’s eyes flicker with interest to this. It’s not quite interrogation — but at the same time, Joshua cannot pretend he’s interested from a technical standpoint what other mages trained under Junhui.

“It’s hard for me to tell you a year,” Junhui says after a moment, “Time is of no importance to me. But I know it was a long time. Vernon was still teething on fish bones when she left the island.” He looks at Vernon now, eyes critically examining every inch of his body. “So long ago. I wonder what happened to her.”

It takes just a look for Joshua to be assured that Jeonghan thinks the same thing. Clearing his throat, Joshua says: “If you give us a name, perhaps we can tell you.”

“How would you know?” Junhui asks, a hint of surprise in his voice, reasonably as one would.

While thinking of the appropriate euphemism, it’s Jeonghan who answers. “I was in the archives of the Order of Witch Hunters somewhat recently. I read volumes and volumes of records.”

“If her name is written by the Order of Witch Hunters, would that not mean she’s dead?” Junhui asks, in that unflinchingly blunt way of his.

“Wouldn’t you rather know?” Jeonghan asks. He pauses, so long and obvious it’s clear what’s on his mind. “It’s the unknowing that cuts deeper than grief, not being sure if they’re already beyond your help, not knowing if the last time you saw them was their last time as well?”

There’s weight behind those words, and Joshua stills next to him. Junhui says her name. A distinct pause follows, and Joshua’s head turns up to Jeonghan. His face is frozen.

“She’s dead, yes?” Junhui asks, and his voice doesn’t shake but it does reverberate around the edges. 

Jeonghan nods.

“Ah.” The flowers that coil around his neck droop. “I’m going for a walk on the beach. All who care to accompany me, do follow.”

Vernon rises instantly, points to Seungkwan in the distance, murmurs about telling him. Junhui lets him go, pauses to gaze at the two of them like they were caught stealing sweets from the kitchen. “Care to join us? The sun is wonderful this time of day.”

“No,” Joshua says. “I’ll stay here.” It feels strange to be near Junhui now, feels like he hurt him in a way that neither of them comprehend. Jeonghan voices his own decline of the invitation, and Junhui nods, leaves the cabin. The door closes itself behind him.

“We didn’t kill her,” Joshua says, after a moment. If just to confirm.

“We couldn’t even if we wanted to. She was already dead when we were children,” Jeonghan replies, and it takes a while to get him to speak again after that.

  


  


“My father was the one who signed off when they burnt her,” Jeonghan says. “I saw his signature, but obviously, I thought nothing of it. There were rows and rows of files proclaiming the deceased as a result of him. One more is nothing surprising.”

Joshua stops stirring honey into the cups of tea in front of him. He stares at the ochre liquid, trying to realign himself to Jeonghan’s sudden conversational shift. He certainly hadn’t said this many words when Joshua had offered to make some tea, but sitting down at the table, he seems to be in a rare talkative mood. 

“Do you think he knows about this island?” Joshua asks, anxiety creeping in.

“Wouldn’t matter if he did,” Jeonghan says, “He’s not around anymore.”

If he had Seungkwan’s people skills, it would be easier. He’d just know when he should say something, and when he should leave and when he should stay. He doesn’t. But what he has is experience, is knowing how Jeonghan must feel. So Joshua’s patient. He’ll wait for Jeonghan. Just like he has, since he was twelve years old. “Oh, Jeonghan, I’m so sorry.”

He dosn’t look at him. Fixes his gaze on the hand-painted cups.

“He got to see me as an Inquisitor. That’s all he wanted.” He sounds bitter. The honey will sweeten that. Joshua turns around, places tea before him and then settles down into the opposite chair. Sips his own cup slowly, looking at Jeonghan carefully. Rooibos, is what Vernon called the tea, and it tastes even better than it looks.

“I thought they'd stop calling me names when I'm Inquisitor. They didn't. All they did was preface them with my title,” he says, so brokenly, Joshua has no response to it. Wishes he could hold his hand but stops himself halfway, curls around the handle of the cup instead. “I thought it would be different when I’m Inquisitor. It’s perhaps the most devastating thing to find out it’s not. It’s exactly the same, and that’s the problem. I’m the problem.”

His fingers look naked without his rings.

“Drink your tea,” Joshua says softly.

Jeonghan looks up at him. Almost wistful. “It smells wonderful, Joshua. Thank you. Is that mint?”

“Yes. Enhances the flavour of the rooibos. Seungkwan taught me that,” Joshua replies.

At the mention of Seungkwan’s name, Jeonghan’s eyebrows knit together in concern. Joshua watches him. He still doesn’t touch his tea, staring off into space. “He has a broad knowledge, doesn’t he?”

Joshua beams. “He does. I always learn something whenever I’m with him.”

Jeonghan considers for a moment. “Where is Seungkwan?”

There was a time Joshua would have hesitated before answering this question. He doesn’t, now. “His room, last I checked.”

“I’ll be a moment,” Jeonghan rises to his feet and he’s out of the kitchen before Joshua can say another word. He tries not to be too offended, focuses on drinking his own tea. He can’t stop himself from staring at Jeonghan’s cup, watching the smoke waft out until there’s no more, until it’s cold, and it’s been so long and Jeonghan’s still not returned.

Joshua walks past Seungkwan’s room, and his intention was to confirm Jeonghan’s whereabouts, not to eavesdrop, but it’s what occurs regardless. The door is ajar, and Joshua can’t stop himself from pausing outside. Sobriety is never suited to Seungkwan’s face. He’s standing, looking down at the floor.

And, on his knees, is Jeonghan, hands clasped together.

Joshua can’t make out the words, but also knows the posture and tone of someone begging for forgiveness.

  


   

  


Joshua helps Jeonghan where he can. Sits next to him in silence at the glow of the firelight almost every evening and never expects Jeonghan to talk, knows that it’s only through reflection that reconstruction can occur. It’s only through reflection that you discover what are the pieces that went missing.

“Joshua, did you tell Junhui who I was?” he asks. His voice seems hoarse from disuse. Joshua doesn’t answer immediately, lets his ears commit to memory the sound of his name.

“To an extent,” Joshua answers, knowing that honesty is the only thing he could give, and the only thing Jeonghan could want. “He doesn’t quite understand the concept of witch hunters at all. He was aware of their existence but never could comprehend why anyone would attempt to kill magic-users.”

Jeonghan shakes his head in disbelief. “The Order kept tabs on him since his apprentice showed up on the mainland, assembled an entire profile on his assumed behaviour and location, and he didn’t even know who we were.” He’s almost speechless. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

The stars are bright tonight.

“I don’t know how to feel,” Jeonghan says. “About the knowledge that the only reason we found this place was because his former apprentice was tortured for information at the hands of the Order. But that’s just what it’s been like regularly. Confusion.”

It’s become part of his routine. The firepit is a stone’s throw away from Junhui’s cottage — but most notably, not actually connected. There’s a sense of privacy. In the beginning, all of them would spend their evenings here, Seungkwan and Vernon contributing to the conversation in increasing excitement while Junhui would listen in with interest, but gradually their company dwindled until it was the two of them.

“Why do you ask?”

Jeonghan exhales. “I apologized to him. Earlier. For everything.”

Joshua carefully composes his shock. “What did Junhui say?”

“He forgave me, and then asked me what I was apologizing for,” Jeonghan replies, shaking his head. “I always assumed you just told him… _everything_.”

“It’s not mine to tell,” Joshua replies. What would he say, when he himself doesn’t quite understand what is going on in Jeonghan’s mind? When he mourns the death of his former life, but Joshua doesn’t know if it’s because of guilt or regret?  

There’s familiarity in the darkness in Jeonghan’s eyes — it used to live in his own as well. And Joshua would take it away if he could, would light a thousand matches, illuminate the whole world. But he can’t, knows that it’s something that will only diminish with time.

“Thank you,” Jeonghan says after a moment, his voice small but strong with gratitude. “For giving me that grace.”

Joshua inclines his head. Normally he’d be tempted to press further, but there’s something bitter at the back of his throat, and he wants to pretend it isn’t there, because he knows he’s being ridiculous.

“Joshua, I don’t know how much longer I can stay here,” Jeonghan says.

“It’s nice near the ocean.”

“It is,” Jeonghan raises his gaze, looks out at the horizon, can almost make out the inky black waves crashing against the shore. “But I don’t think I can be here much longer. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Where do you want to go?” Joshua asks. It’ll ache to leave. It’ll be even worse than when he said goodbye to Seungcheol and Wonwoo all those months ago. Much worse. He’s never been without Seungkwan before. He trusts Junhui and Vernon unconditionally though, he knows that Seungkwan will be happy here, will be _free_ , can run around under the palm trees and laugh as he skips stones on the beach. But it’ll be without Joshua, and that will take some time to get used to for him as well.

“I can honestly say I haven’t thought too much about the finer details.” Jeonghan’s cheeks are gaunt.

Joshua’s grown his life around Seungkwan, the vines curling around a tree, and if this is where his path leads, he prepares to sever it, twist around Jeonghan instead. Never to strangle, always to cradle.

“We could — and should — stop by the Mire,” Joshua says. “After that, perhaps we go to Redania.” It’s hard planning for a trip that has no goal nor a destination, but Joshua attempts to pool the information he knows together. “You told me the witcher Mingyu is there. We can converse with him.”

Jeonghan is quiet for so long that Joshua wonders if the conversation is complete, if that’s as much progress that they’ll make tonight. And Joshua would be satisfied with that, at least he knows now where Jeonghan’s thoughts are, knows that he needs to start making preparations for leaving.

“It’s not the place that’s the problem. I am.”

Jeonghan’s hair has started to grow long again. It had been cut so severe when they arrived, but now the curled edges of blonde brush against his nape. He always wears it loose. Joshua’s breath still gets taken away every time he sees it.

“You’re not the problem, Jeonghan. I’ve told you this. Do you want to leave because you think you have to? Because that’s not true—”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Joshua,” Jeonghan says. His voice starts to shake. “Joshua, I’m going to be punished for what I’ve done, I’ve killed so many people with my own hands. There’s going to be nothing left of me when I get what’s coming. And I deserve it.”

“Do you think I deserve any of that?” Joshua’s voice is soft.

“No, no, _never_ ,” Jeonghan says, pained. Desperate, even.

“Then, why do you think you do?”

Jeonghan winces like the more Joshua tries to help, the more it hurts. “It always was a choice. I wanted this glory, Joshua. I wanted to be Inquisitor and I feel like I lost that last vestige of humanity that remained in me when I put on that ring.”

He doesn’t look like the youngest Inquisitor in the entire Order like this. He just looks broken.

“I’ve been trying to make amends, but it’s not enough,” Jeonghan says, staring at his hands.

“You’re right,” Joshua says, and the bitterness spills over his tongue and onto his words. “It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough, and that’s why _you keep trying to be better_. Everyday, you try and be better than you were yesterday, that’s how I’ve lived and that’s what you’ve been doing too. You apologized to Wonwoo, you apologized to Seungkwan, and you’ve even apologized to Junhui but—”

He cuts himself off. Before he says something he regrets.

“Tell me,” Jeonghan implores.

Joshua shakes his head.

“ _Please_.”

And he’s always had this habit of giving into Jeonghan, time after time, and this is no exception.

“You never apologized to _me_.”

Because as much as Joshua loves Jeonghan, and he knows he does, the memory of all that he’s done remains, and it _hurts_. Relief unravels in his chest with the realization that he’s finally confessed this resentment he’s carried around with him. Whatever happens now, Joshua endures it honestly and openly.

“I know,” Jeonghan says.

“You know?” Perhaps Joshua would have felt better if it was an oversight on Jeonghan’s part — but if he knew, if he _knew_ that Joshua deserved an apology and he intentionally withheld it for whatever reason…

Firelight illuminates Jeonghan’s features. “Yes.” Jeonghan looks away in shame.

“Then, why haven’t you? Did you think I wouldn’t forgive you?” He can’t keep the anger from his voice. That would be ridiculous. Joshua has single handedly brought Jeonghan back to life over the last few months, of course he would _forgive_ him. Certainly, he’s done more to hurt Seungkwan and Wonwoo, and they have shown mercy. Why would Jeonghan think otherwise?

Jeonghan runs his hands through his hair, inhaling deeply. Shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s not because of you.” He pauses, struggle to continue. “It’s because of me. I don’t just want your forgiveness, Joshua. I want you.”

He stands up rather gracefully, and sinks to his knees, his back to the fire, his eyes on Joshua. The light flickers across his face.

“I’m sorry,” Jeonghan says, each word fractured and broken but so overwhelmingly sincere. “For hurting you, for lying to you, for not understanding you and above all, I’m sorry I put my trust in the Order instead of you, when you were the only one who ever cared about me.”

The world feels far too small with the vastness of what Joshua feels. It cannot begin to contain the emotion in his gaze. His eyes turn glassy, threatening to spill over with tears. 

“And I’m sorry that I’m the same spoiled child that I always was, because forgiveness isn’t enough,” Jeonghan’s voice is surprisingly steady, even if his hands are shaking. “I can’t just go down on my knees and beg you to give me mercy and move on, not when I want you beside me.” 

Joshua’s been so careful. Painstaking, even. He gives Jeonghan his space, never embraces him, never kisses him — no matter how much Joshua wants to. And he _wants_ to. It’s an ever-present urge, there in every inhale and exhale.

He reaches out his hand, curls his fingers till they interlock with Jeonghan’s. His hand feels lighter without the rings.

“Jeonghan, you have the rest of your life to redeem yourself. I know what it feels like when the weight of what you’ve done is too much to bear but, Jeonghan,” Joshua falters at the sight of tears welling up in Jeonghan’s eyes, “I’ll carry it with you.”

“I don’t deserve a second chance,” he murmurs. “I’ve done terrible, terrible things and I was proud of them. I don’t deserve one, but I want one anyway.”

“You were. And now you’re not. Jeonghan, we can look forward to the future. That’s a privilege we shouldn’t take for granted.” Joshua can see his eyelashes condensed together, can feel the grip on his hand tighten. “You’re not alone.”

Joshua doesn’t hold himself back this time, allows himself the briefest of indulgences, lets himself lean in and take a kiss. Barely a moment, just enough to remind himself what it’s like, remind himself that greed can go both ways — but the moment he steps back, Jeonghan chases after him. It’s hungry, the way their mouths meet. It’s been far too long, and when hearts are meant to beat alongside, it’s difficult to part them. Joshua cups his hand around the back of Jeonghan’s neck, loosely entangling his fingers in his hair. He makes a pleasing sound, and almost says something, but merely gazes at the space between their lips and unites them again. It’s swelteringly hot this close to the fire, and Joshua doesn’t resist the urge to pull Jeonghan closer to his lap.

It feels so painfully natural, like this is the way it’s always meant to be. His vision is a blur of golden hair and pale skin, his ears hearing soft noises and gentle moans. Jeonghan’s hands curl around Joshua’s body like he’s framing them for a picture. He kisses so sweetly, finer than even the honey in the best cup of tea. He kisses so gently, like this is a privilege, like he needs to treasure every moment because he doesn’t deserve this but he’ll gladly accept it anyway. Joshua thinks he could do this forever, and he doesn’t care where, whether it’s the island, or the Mire, or the bottom of the ocean. 

“You’ve waited for me for a long time,” Jeonghan says, breathing the words into his mouth.

“We’ve both waited,” Joshua corrects him. “And I’ll wait longer if that’s what you need.”

Jeonghan rests his forehead against Joshua’s, and for a moment that’s all they do, breathe the same air, enjoy that sensation of existing at the same time in such proximity. “I think all I need is you,” Jeonghan whispers after a moment.

Joshua traces a hand across his jaw. Cannot suppress the smile that spreads across his face.

"Let me," Jeonghan says. "Let me show you how much I long for you. I want to make you happy in the way that you make me. I can't bring back graves already dug and I can't give you a tower so let me give you this, and hope that it's a fraction as meaningful. “ He connects their hands together.

The fire burns long after they leave.

            

        

Joshua teaches him absolution in the touch of their bodies. Hands that once light pyres grip his thighs as he thrusts in. Lips that worshipped the Order kiss his hands, beg for the comforting touch. Shows him that this body that was fashioned to a weapon is not only that, was _never_ only that. All Jeonghan’s wanted was a place in the world for the two of them, and he’d assumed it would be with matching twin towers, but it’s one of those rare moments where Jeonghan is wrong.

Entangled together, it feels like years of distance melt away in the heat of their embrace. It feels good to kiss him, and Jeonghan holds on so tightly, as if fearing something will sever them apart again. Nothing does. They move as one, Joshua breathing words he’d never usually dare speak aloud into the skin of Jeonghan’s neck. It seems worth it, too, that if every loss and every moment led up to this, then it would be enough. This is enough.

Jeonghan is always enough.

The sea breeze is always cold this time of year. Jeonghan insisted that Joshua bring a scarf, and although Joshua had accused Jeonghan of being overbearing, he’s secretly pleased. He would have been freezing otherwise.

“See anything?” Jeonghan asks. He peers over the corner of the jetty, analyzing the clear water.

“Not yet,” Joshua replies. “We should go further down.” He takes an idle walk while Jeonghan settles at the end, feet hanging over the edge. The weather really is fantastic today, and he knows that Vernon is surely preparing an equally incredible meal. Joshua’s mouth waters at the thought of it. When they’re done here, he must remember to pick up shells at the shore for the little one in the Mire. He’s become an inquisitive child, and will no doubt be fascinated by the contortions and colours as found in the conches washed up on the beach.

“They’re here, Joshua!” Jeonghan calls, voice ringing with delight. 

 Truthfully, Joshua never expected Jeonghan to be so interested in the migratory patterns of fish, but perhaps that’s the wonderful thing to be back at the island, to engage in those frivolous hobbies they adopted the first time.

Following the sound of his voice, Joshua sets himself down to Jeonghan, and watches the water. It’s so remarkably clear that it’s easy to see the schools of fish racing past, swirls of pink and blue. There are so many young ones today, their fins small and their eyes big, and they’re so _excited_ , cannot stop swimming around and around. Jeonghan seems incredibly endeared.

They don’t glow, not like the fish in the Mire, but these ones are lovely too. He has so many good memories of this jetty, of watching the whales in the distance, of eating lettuce wraps while the sun sets, of being delicately fucked one summer evening all slow and syrupy, and now of this, of watching Jeonghan’s hair blow in the wind, and of his face lighting up at the sight of the visiting fish.

Later, they’ll walk on the sand together. Later, they’ll have dinner together and Seungkwan will not stop talking for a moment while they eat, simultaneously gushing about the new spells he’s learnt with Vernon while criticizing Joshua for his messy hair. Later, they’ll settle down together in front of the fire pit, and Junhui will enchant rows and rows of berries as dessert.

But that is later, and now, Joshua links his hand with Jeonghan’s. Feels that familiar sensation of the ring upon his fourth finger, the one that matches his own. This single ring is far more valuable than any number of those forged in the Order. Besides, this one is gold and Joshua's rather fond of that colour.

Jeonghan looks at him and smiles. For the first time, Joshua feels complete.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have endless gratitude to everyone who's helped me with this story, it's one that means so much. First and foremost is to my beta Shauna for tirelessly working over my work, making it the best it can be and I'm absolutely grateful for her 💖 all of hagline on Twitter have been so important but I have to thank Hyb in particular for always being there to help me work out some thorny plot issue or give me a new point of view. my darling kali is the world's best cheerleader and I'm so thankful that she reads every word, always overflowing with support and enthusiasm. And, as always to Steph, who's always the worst but also the best. 
> 
> lastly, I have to thank Almay because without her this fic wouldn't have existed. thank you so much for sharing your creativity with me and letting me share mine with you. you're the world's best creative consultant and I'm honestly so lucky to have you as my friend. love you to stukkies. 💖💖💖💖
> 
> and of course thank you to everyone who's ever given pyrophoros a chance! who's read and tweeted about it, commented, given it kudos and bookmarked or recommended it to a friend or sent me a CC. it's been wonderful getting to know all of you through the comments and my CC and I hope you enjoyed the ride. 💕
> 
> as always, you can talk to me in the comments below or on CC - I'd love to know your feedback and thoughts on the finale! 
> 
> I started writing this fic because I wanted a joshua-centered fantasy slowburn longfic - and it's an honour to share it with you all.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are my favourite thing in the world and I'd love to hear some feedback! 💕 you can also hit me up on curiouscat!
> 
> you can find me on:  
> \- [twitter](https://twitter.com/minhyukwithagun/)  
> \- [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/minhyukwithagun/)  
> \- under your local drawbridge
> 
> a [link](https://open.spotify.com/user/zlraonyyqnia8c22x4wcvuh7k/playlist/4rByAwus1Xj75a1NrDSgm0?si=Rc8ki_UIQVuhlF9HPUIs8g) to the spotify playlist for this fic!  
> [aesthetic thread](https://twitter.com/minhyukwithagun/status/1120444072165031936)
> 
> thanks for reading! 💕


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